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HEbEN 


BY 


CAMPBELL  WALDO  WAITE 


Sar  ar  vikiugavinst.  och  det  pryder  sin  man.   niir  pa.  briist  eller  panua 

del  star; 
Lat  dot  l)l(")da;  forbind  det  se'n  dygnet  iir  om,  mt'ii  cj  fiirr.  vill  du  helsas 

for  var. 

FUITHIOF'S  SAGA. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  Lours  BRAUNHOLD 


CHICAGO 
W.  E.  DIBBLE  &  CO 

1890 


COPYRIGHTED    BY 

W.  K.  DIBBLK  &   CO 

1890 


ELECTItOTYPED  BY 

O.  M.  D.  LIBBY 

CHICAGO 


GLA^C^L.    e*-s 


L/CA- 


JUtT^r-^^-^-^ 

jfoii     P^r^\ 


CJLJ, 


& 


CONTENTS. 


PART  FIRST.  — LOSS. 


CANTO 

I 

.  —  HAZARD,    . 

CANTO 

II 

.  —  HELP,    .        .        . 

CANTO 

III 

.  —  ASPIRATION,       . 

CANTO 

IV 

.  —  INSTRUCTION,         . 

CANTO 

V 

.  —  IDEALITY,                                      , 

CANTO 

VI 

.  —  REPUTATION, 

CANTO 

VII 

.  —  RENUNCIATION, 

CANTO 

VIII 

.  —  FRIENDSHIP,            . 

CANTO 

IX 

.  —  DEVOTION,          . 

CANTO 

X 

.  —  PASSION,         . 

CANTO 

XI 

.  —  MELODY,    . 

CANTO 

XII 

.  —  LOVE  

PART  SECOND:  --TRIAL. 

CANTO 

I 

.'—WAR  

CANTO 

II 

.  —  RESOLVE,      

CANTO 

III 

.  —  SACRIFICE,        . 

CANTO 

IV.  —  DUTY,   ...... 

CANTO 

V.  —  RECOGNITION,   .        . 

CANTO 

VI,  —  PRAYER,        »  „- 

PAGE 

13 

18 
29 
36 

55 
66 

75 

91 

101 

H5 
127 

137 


US 

152 
165 
175 
179 
1 86 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CANTO     VII. 

PAGK 
1  08 

CANTO  VIII. 

—  CONSOLATION, 

7 

2IO 

CANTO     IX. 

-  HEROISM, 

2I4 

CANTO       X. 

-  TRIUMPH,       .         .        . 

221 

CANTO      XI. 

-  RECONCILIATION, 

232 

CANTO    XII. 

—  Au  REVOIR,            .... 

241 

PART  THIRD.  —  FRUITION. 


CANTO         I.  —  PEACE, 
CANTO       II.  —  POLITICS, 

CANTO  III.  —  OPINION, 

CANTO  IV.  —  SURCEASE,     . 
CANTO       V.  —  SHADOWS, 

CANTO  VI.  —  BEAUTY, 

CANTO  VII.  —  RESIGNATION, 
CANTO  VIII.  —  REMEDILESSNESS, 

CANTO  IX.  —  EMBERS, 
CANTO       X.  —  REMORSE, 

CANTO  XI.  —  RETRIEVAL, 

CANTO  XII.  —  SHADINGS, 
CANTO  XIII.  —  REST, 


247 

253 
263 
270 
284 
292 
306 
3H 
325 
336 
350 
367 
375 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

THE  DOCTOR  AND  LAXDIS.  12 

Standing  straight  as  a  lance, 
Neath  the  Doctor's  review,  in  (he  radiant  flush 
Of  youth's  glamor  of  strength. 

Engraved  on  wood  by  Wm.  Mollier. 

MARK  LANDIS  IN  THE  WEST.  17 

BREAKING  THE  PRAIRIE.  19 

See  them  breaking  the  prairie!    How  clean  the  turned  sod, 
Where  but  foot  of  the  Indian  hunter  hath  trod  ! 

HELEN  AT  THE  SLOUGH.  23 

Who  should  happen  along  but  a  buxom  brown  creature, 
On  a  pony  as  much  like  its  mistress  in  feature    .    .    . 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 

HELEN  CANTERING  OFF. 

CALLING  AT  THE  OLD  FARM-HOUSE.  87 

Sable  servitors  twain  came,  with  bustle  and  din, 
Each  in  way  of  the  other,  to  usher  him  in. 

LANDIS  AND  HELEN.  47 

Thus  the  evening  waned;  and  ere  they  were  aware, 
The  great  parlor  clock's  face  was  beginning  to  wear 
A  look  anxious  and  sharp. 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 

HERO-WORSHIP.  54 

HELEN  BROODING.  ®> 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SYMPOSIUM  AT  THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  69 

Sat,  on  barrels,  and  boxes,  and  boards,  as  they  cool  I, 
The  select  coterie  of  the  whole  neighborhood. 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 
IN  THE  GROVE.  83 

The  bays  finally  came  to  a  halt 
In  a  spot,  in  the  heart  of  the  grove,  where  a  vault 
Of  the  maples,  and  sumacs,  and  oaks  had  been  made. 

LANDIS  BY  His  LONELY  HEARTH.  114 

PASSION'S  POWER.  121 

Looking  full  in  the  face  the  bold  loTe-mntineer: 
Looking  full  in  his  face,  and  yet  not  resting  there. 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 
ROLFE  AND  HIS  CHESTNUTS.  134 

HELEN  ALONE  WITH  HER  LOVE.  135 

"  For  I  love  yonr  great  heart,  Mark,  my  king !    If  yon  live, 
If  yon  die,  I  am  yonrs,  I  am  yours,  to  the  end, 
Be  it  near,  be  it  far,  O,  my  lover,  my  friend." 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 
HELEN  ON  THE  VERANDA  153 

She  heard 

From  her  dear  parent's  lips  that  he  held  in  his  hand 
For  his  darling  a  missive. 

HELEN  AND  HER  FATHER.  164 

RICHARD  ROLFE  AND  HELEN  IN  HOSPITAL  TENT.  167 

Bending  down  o'er  the  cot,  she  breathed  low  but  one  word — 
"Richard!" 

LANDIS  IN  THE  FIELD.  178 

RECOGNITION  ON  BATTLE-FIELD.  181 

...    A  cry 

That  escaped  from  the  nurse,  as  a  torchlight  passed  by, 
And  upon  the  dark.  ix>wder-grimed  face  threw  its  glare. 

SCENE  IN  AMBULANCE.  185 


ILLUSTRATIONS.  * 

PAGE 

EVENING  HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN.  205 

Ave,  Maria! 
Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 

HELEN  WITH  BABE.  213 

L,ANDIS  ALONE  ON  BATTLE-FlELD.  217 

He  staid  poised  for  a  moment,  his  eye  lustrous  yet; 

One  look  toward  the  now  mantling  and  purpling  sunset    .    .    .  • 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 

STRETCHERS  BEARING  AWAY  THE  HEROES.  220 

THE  NUN  IN  ROLFE'S  TENT.  233 

Richard  turned  on  his  cot,  aud  before  him  there  stood, 
In  the  beauty  of  gentleness,  Sister  Gertrude. 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 

THE  COMMANDANT  AND  LANDIS.  240 

HELEN'S  APPEAL  TO  HER  HUSBAND.  243 

He  said:    "  I  will  go 
To  the  earth's  farthest  bounds,  if  it  be  but  with  yon." 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 

ROLFE,  HELEN,  AND  CHILD  ON  SHIPBOARD.  246 

lyANDIS  AND  THE  NOMINATING  COMMITTEE.  255 

"  General,  say  !    The  boys  hev  ben  thinkin',  right  smart, 
That  yer  name  to  our  deestrick  would  give  a  fresh  start." 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 
THE  SEWING  SOCIETY.  267 

"The  idea!" 

"Absurd!  " 

"He's  a  bear!  " 

Eng.  on  wood  by  Mollier. 
HELEN  SKETCHING  BY  THE  MEDITERRANEAN.  276 

And  enabled  her  nature's  expressions  to  catch,  • 
Giving  birth  to  desire  (hat  she  might  lift  the  latch 
Into  art's  antechamber  that  opens. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

LE  PAYSAN  CONTENT.  283 

ROLFE  AND  HELEN  BY  THE  MEDITERRANEAN.  291 

LANDIS  AND  BLANCHE  ADAIR  TAKING  A  RIDE.  301 

While  her  gay,  jnst-too-lovely-for-any-thing  hat, 
And  her  smile,  as  in  saddle  she  gracefully  sat, 
Gave  a  challenge  to  man  and  to  love. 

DEATH  OF  RICHARD  ROLFE.  313 

LANDIS  AND  CELESTK.  339 

While  he  held 

Celeste's  soft,  yielding  hands,  that  there  welled 
Out  of  fathomless  eye-depths  a  look  that  so  glowed    .    .    . 

BLANCHE  ADAIR'S  AVOWAL  TO  LANDIS.  355 

"  Know  this,  then,  that  /  love  you .' 

"And,  pray,  do  not  start." 

BLANCHE  IN  TEARS.  366 

LANDIS  AMONG  HIS  HORSES  AND  CATTLE.  375 

In  his  barnyard,  one  day,  in  a  ruminant  mood, 

With  his  dumb-langnaged  pots  round  him,  Farmer  Mark  stood. 

HELEN  FINDS  REST.  387 

Her  head  sank  on  his  true,  strong,  and  masterful  breast, 
Where  she  found  the  years'  guerdon — ineffable  rest. 


12055 


CANTO  FIRST. 


HAZARD. 


I. 

"I  must  talk  to  you  plainly,"  the  old  Doctor  said, 

While  he  shook,  in  grave,  medical  way,  his  bald  head. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  satisfied  with  your  condition; 

And,  as  one  who  has  served  sire  and  son,  as  physician, 

These  thirty  long  years,  and  is,  at  the  best, 

A  poor  hand  at  professional  lying,  the  zest, 

And  the  grace  as  well,  lacking  therefor,  there  are  things 

I  must  urge  you  to  yield,  to  which  all  your  soul  clings 

As  to  life  itself — nay,  which  I  know  that  you  hold 

E'en  above  life's  sweet  boon,  above  earth's  green  or  gold." 

n. 

"  My  dear  Doctor,  speak  freely.     'Tis  better  the  case 
I  should  hear  as  it  stands,  and  look  facts  in  the  face; 
For  I  know  that  whatever  you  choose  to  tell  me, 
The  truth  dressed  in  no  garb  of  phrase-feigning  will  be." 

in. 

"  'Tis  just  this,"  said  the  Doctor;  and  then  a  big  lump 
Seemed  to  lodge  in  his  throat,  while  his  words  in  a  clump 
Rolled  together;  and,  hesitant  standing,  he  hemmed, 
And  the  tide  of  his  speech  for  a  moment  was  stemmed; 
But  at  length  he  went  on.    "  Bluntly  this  I  must  say: 
That  your  once  ruddy  health  is  now  fast  giving  way; 
For  your  travels  abroad,  having  done  you  scant  good, 
Leave  you  weaker  in  muscle,  and  thinner  in  blood; 


14  HELEN. 

There's  no  stay  in  your  flesh,  and  your  pulse  does  not  show 
The  beat  rhythmic  blood  measures  where  health' s  currents  flow. 
The  dread  seeds  of  consumption,  my  boy,  have  been  sown 
In  your  blood  ere  your  birth.     Though   they  have  not  yet 

grown — 

While  not  yet  is  the  malady  fastened  on  you,— 
'Tis  but  one  stage  removed.     This  'tis  vain  from  your  view 
To  conceal." 

IV. 

Now,  whoe'er  but  a  casual  glance 

At  Mark  Landis  had  cast,  standing  straight  as  a  lance, 
'Neath  the  Doctor's  review,  in  the  radiant  flush 
Of  youth's  glamour  of  strength,  seeming  ready  to  crush 
Opposition,  from  whatever  source  it  might  come, 
Would  have  deemed  the  young  fellow  as  sound  as  a  drum. 
Quick  of  limb,  clear  of  eye,  full  of  ardor,  he  stood, 
That  spring  morn,  with  a  color  which  came  of  stirred  blood,    • 
But  one  which  the  chill  draughts,  from  the  White  Mountains 

drawn, 

Would  drive  off,  leaving  cheeks  that  were  sallow  and  wan: 
Like  full  many  a  tinge  that  exhibitors  wear 
In  the  booths  of  inspection  in  Vanity  Fair. 

v. 

'Twas  no  marvel  the  words  in  the  good  Doctor's  throat 
Stuck  in  breaking  the  truth  with  such  sad  bodements  fraught; 
For  young  Mark  from  a  child  he  had  constantly  loved, 
And  his  disinterested  affection  had  proved, 
As  the  lad  up  through  youth  into  man's  estate  grew, 
In  the  unobserved  ways  his  great  heart  only  knew. 
And  the  Doctor  had  cherished  a  dream — (ah,  they  cease 
Not  when  age  stealeth  on,  nor  in  brightness  decrease, 


HAZARD.  15 

When  infirmity  cotneth,  those  beautiful  dreams! 

Only  when  on  crepuscular  shadows  there  beams 

The  aurora  of  shadowless  day,  are  they  lost 

In  the  waking  of  death-bridging,  fathomless  trust,) — 

A  dream  based  on  an  infantile  troth  that  between 

The  one  child  of  his  house  and  the  boy  Mark  had  been 

By  fond  parents  exchanged.     When  the  lad  showed  a  gift 

Clear  and  great,  when  he  seemed  fate-commissioned  to  lift 

The  charmed  veil  of  the  Beautiful,  and  the  true  keys 

That  unlock  the  arcana  of  Genius  to  seize, 

With  so  fervent  a  faith  and  so  anxious  a  gaze 

Had  the  old  Doctor  watched  the  developing,  rays 

Of  this  intellect  beaconing  )'ears  that  were  far, 

That  he  viewed  it  as  shepherds  viewed  Bethlehem's  star. 

VI. 

The  physician,  with  bluntness  and  earnestness  blent, 

Thus  resumed,  with  his  patient's  gaze  close  on  him  bent. 

"  I  can  see  but  one  remedy  now  left  for  you, 

If  you  care  for  preserving  your  life,  to  pursue. 

But  you  may  (as  an  invalid  prizes  his  ease) 

The  specific  regard  as  worse  than  the  disease. 

If  so,  then  I  must  tell  you  in  terms  clear  and  square, 

'Tis  as  well  for  the  worst  that  you  early  prepare  ; 

For  a  crisis  unwelcome,  I  can  but  infer, 

May  at  any  time  in  your  condition  occur.  ' ' 

VII. 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  frankness,"  the  young  artist  said. 
"  What  is  this  prescribed  remedy,  gruesome  and  dread, 
And  of  which  you've  inspired  me  with  fear  in  advance  ? 
I  entreat,  Doctor,  not  to  be  kept  in  suspense." 
--j.    .     .     Then  the  latter  a  recipe  gave  on  this  wise, 
Which  the  soul  of  the  artist  o'erwhelmed  with  surprise: 


16  HELEN. 

VIII. 

"  It  is  this  :     Buy  a  tract  of  wild  land  in  the  West ; 
Go  there;  give  all  the  strength  of  which  you  are  possessed 
To  the  labor  of  tilling  it ;  give  it  your  heart  ; 
Set  your  back  on  refinements  attendant  on  art ; 
Drop  your  palette  for  years,  or  for  aye  ;  let  it  be 
As  a  thing  of  the  past  to  you,  till  you  are  free 
From  the  phantom  demanding  blood-tribute  of  you. 
This  condition  you  can  but  deem  hard,  it  is  true  ; 
But  I  dare  not  release  you  therefrom,  as  your  friend 
And  adviser,  till  gained  be  the  striven- for  end. 

IX. 

"  Hold  the  plow;  chop;  dig  ditches;  split  rails,  and  milk  cows  ; 

Fodder  with  your  own  hands,  and  heap  up  your  own  mows  ; 

Make  companions  of  horses,  your  life  graft  on  theirs  ; 

Pet  them,  court  them,  and  love  them,  and  lighten  their  cares; 

And  teach  them  to  love  you  ;  bed  them  down  in  their  stalls  ; 

And  thus  mix  among  all  of  your  languageless  thralls. 

Tend  your  kine  and  your  sheep  ;  feed  your  pigs  and  your  calves; 

Your  worst  work  yourself  do,  and  do  nothing  by  halves. 

Lay  your  gloves  with  your  art  far  away  on  the  shelf ; 

And  a  hard-working  farming-man  make  of  yourself. 

Gather  muscle  and  sinew,  bronze,  blisters,  and  brawn  ; 

Learn  like  oxen  to  sweat,  and  forget  how  to  yawn  ; 

Become  utterly  tired  and  wolf-hungry  from  work, 

And  eat  nothing  less  hearty  than  mutton  and  pork  ; 

Delve  all  day  in  the  fields,  till  your  back-bone  shall  bend, 

And  at  night  lie  down  feeling  the  bed  your  best  friend. 

For  those  delicate  fingers  and  palms  soft  and  fair, 

Get  the  rough,  horny  hands  that  the  harvesters  bear  ; 

And  vow  never  to  look  toward  New  England  again, 

Until  strength  arms  each  nerve,  and  red  blood  fills  each  vein." 


HAZARD. 
X. 

"  Or  until  on  the  prairie  my  grave  has  been  made, 
And  with  head  to  the  East  in  my  last  rest  I'm  laid," 
Added  Landis  with  bitter-sad  smile. 

"Kill  or  cure!" 

Grimly  answered  the  Doctor.      "This  test  to  endure, 
Should  you  try  it,  the  fates  kindly  lend  you  their  aid  !" 
"  I  will  try  it  !"  Mark  L,andis,  with  lips  compressed,  said. 


17 


XI. 

In  the  orchards  infolded  in  gray  granite  hills, 
Where  tilth's  struggle  with  nature  life's  whole  measure  fills, 
The  old  apple-trees,  rugged  as  skalds  of  the  North, 
Their  new  buds  with  our  opening  tale  putting  forth, 
Had  their  snow-showery  blossoms  not  dropped  to  the  earth, 
And  still  fresh  were  the  hopes  to  which  Easter  gives  birth, 
While  was  yet  but  half  bared  nature's  Puritan  breast, 
When  Mark  Iyandis,  the  purposed,  was  far  in  the  West. 


CANTO  SECOND. 

HELP. 
I. 

When  Jehovah,  unfolding  His  infinite  plan. 
Gave  the  world,  in  its  newly  wrought  beaut}-,  to  man, 
And  the  creature,  in  freshness  of  spirit,  went  forth 
Through  the  radiant,  redolent,  resonant  earth, 
With  unprobed,  untongued  gratitude  swelling  his  breast, 
To  survey  the  resplendent,  grand  glory -bequest, 
I  doubt  not  that  in  Eden,  stretched  out  in  rich  green, 
Fair,  bright,  full-blooming,  far-spreading  prairies  were  seen- 
The  Creator's  own  meadow-lands,  planted  in  love, 
Where  the  angels  with  primitive  mortals  might  rove. 
The  glad  prairie  !    What  stories  of  beauty  it  tells, 
With  its  scarcely  perceptible  undulant  swells, 
Like  those  which  on  the  blue  sea's  sublime  bosom  play, 
When,  becalmed,  its  deep  sobs  in  soft  sighs  die  away  ! 
'Tis  the  beauty  of  night,  with  its  star-wealth  begemmed  ; 
Tis  the  beauty  of  ocean,  unmeasured,  unframed  : 
'Tis  the  beauty  of  holiness,  pure  as  the  breath 
That  once,  glorified,  burst  through  the  portals  of  death. 

-.n-.  - 
Behold,  strong  in  stern  purpose,  the  young  artist  stand, 

With  his  feet  on  the  soil  as  it  came  from  God's  hand, 
Farewell  bidding  to  hopes  he  had  nourished  as  part 
Of  the  web  of  existence,  inuring  his  heart 
To  the  new  and  unwelcome  life-trial  that  fate 
For  him  held,  its  result  with  calm  soul  to  await. 


e  i 


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HELP.  21 

III. 

See  them  breaking  the  prairie  !     How  clean  the  turned  sod, 
Where  but  foot  of  the  Indian  hunter  hath  trod  ! 
Cut  but  gently,  O,  plowmen,  in  Nature's  soft  breast  ! 
'Tis  the  pillow  where  one  day  your  heads  shall  find  rest. 
Mother  Nature,  be  patient !     They  scarify  thee, 
But  to  show,  in  the  healing,  how  fair  thou  canst  be. 
Ah,  the  gay,  furrowed  field  !     They  have  put  a  new  gown 
On  our  dame,  neatly  plaited,  and  close  folded  down  ! 
#  #  # 

iv. 

When  Mark  Landis  work  on  his  new  land  had  begun, 
A  sensation  had  through  the  vicinity  run, 
At  the  sight  of  a  modest,  soft-spoken  young  man, 
With  the  hand  of  a  girl,  and  a  countenance  wan, 
Making  feint  of  farm-tilling  in  earnest.     There  spread 
A  broad  smile  o'er  the  general  face  ;  and  'twas  said  : 
' '  A  fine  farmer  will  he  make,  to  start  on  wild  land  ! ' ' 
"See  that  delicate  face,  and  that  lily-white  hand  !  " 
"  'Twill  be  little  of  farming  that  he  will  do  here  !  " 
' '  That  he  errs  in  his  calling  is  perfectly  clear  : 
What  a  pity  his  gifts  aren't  permitted  to  shine 
In  the  far  more  congenial  man-milliner's  line  !  " 
So  the  talk  went  about,  and  a  welcome  he  met 
In  the  neighborhood  where  his  stakes  thus  he  had  set, 
Such  as  by  the  world's  custom  a  poor  bride  receives 
On  her  advent  among  the  groom's  rich  relatives. 
But  Mark  kept  his  own  course,  with  his  mind,  and  his  heart, 
And  his  hands  on  his  work,  and  his  life  lived  apart 
From  his  much-talking  neighbors,  excepting  times  when 
Business  called  him  to  mingle  among  them  :  and  then, 


M  HELEN. 

• 

As  confession  from  one  to  the  other  went  round, 

Their  new  neighbor  a  frank,  bright,  good  fellow  they  found. 

V. 

One  day,  Mark,  with  his  fall  plowing  having  got  through, 
Was  constructing  a  fence  through  a  troublesome  slough,* 
(A  feat  taxing  the  patience  sublimest,  and  one 
With  defeat  oft  attended,  and  eke  with  profanity's  tone,) 
And  in  order  to  get  for  his  posts  solid  ground, 
Waded  in  for  some  distance,  till  he  at  length  found 
That  the  bottom,  like  hope,  was  delusive,  when — plump  ! — 
Down,  and  up  to  his  arm-pits,  he  sank  in  a  sump. 
In  the  dark,  turbid  depths  of  the  slough  he  was  foundered, 
And  there,  in  the  slush,  like  a  terrapin  floundered. 
Though  fate  with  naught  tragic  impending  was  frowning, 
And  nil  was  the  proximate  danger  of  drowning, 
Our  amateur  farmer  yet  deemed,  just  at  present, 
His  status  one  vastly,  grotesquely  unpleasant; 
But,  trouble's  summation  to  compass  right  there, 
And  o'erwhelm  him  with  misery  too  great  to  bear, 
Who  should  happen  along,  but  a  buxom,  brown  creature, 
On  pony  as  much  like  its  mistress  in  feature 
As  possible  for  any  being  not  human 
To  be  like  a  bright,  budding,  beautiful  woman! 
The  pony  with  mane,  like  a  hero  with  glory, 
Was  covered  :  the  maid's  dark  hair  told  the  same  story. 
To  a  species  the  pony  belonged  that  was  rare  : 
As  unique  was  its  rider's  ensemble  as  fair. 


*  Although  slough  by  the  books  can  rhyme  only  with  plough, 

Orthoepic  lex  loci  such  sound  won't  allow ; 

For  where  prairie-grass  grows,  other  way  there  is  none 

Of  pronouncing  it  save  as  the  author  has  done  ; 

And  one  might  as  well  try  to  catch  grouse  with  a  hook, 

As  to  go  in  such  cases  according  to  book. 


HELP.  23 

Hard  to  be,  even  by  its  own  mistress,  controlled, 
Was  the  pony :  the  rider  was  cast  in  tike  mould  ; 
For  she  never  in  life  had  a  master  yet  known, 
And  had  up  to  this  hour  unsubdued  ever  gone. 

VI. 

The  brown  maid  did  not  do  what  the  typic  female 

Would  presumably  do  ;  for  she  did  not  turn  pale  ; 

Did  not  shriek  ;  did  not  faint ;  her  sweet  hands  did  not  wring  ; 

Did  not  waste  precious  moments  in  cross-questioning  ; 

But,  dismounting,  into  the  abysmal  profound 

She  began  heaving  in  rails  and  stakes,  to  make  ground 

For  the  feet  of  this  mortal  o'erwhelmed  to  stand  on, 

Whose  foundations  as  weak  as  Greek  sophists'  had  grown  ; 

And,  by  timely  and  practical  efforts  like  this, 

Saved  a  soul  from  despair's  and  from  mud's  dark  abyss  ; 

And  the  settler,  from  mire  of  the  roiled  prairie  pond, 

Came  like  Christian  from  out  of  the  Slough  of  Despond, 

And  abashed  stood,  in  front  of  the  fair  prairie  rover, 

A  sight  fit  for  satyrs  and  fawns  to  laugh  over. 

VII. 

If  you  know,  reader,  how  an  aesthetic  youth  feels, 
Posed  in  plethoric  slush,  from  his  head  to  his  heels, 
With  a  sweet  maiden's  eyes  full  upon  him,  alight 
WTith  the  liveliest  sense  of  his  ludicrous  plight, 
And  the  tide  of  her  laughter  through  pity  restraining, 
Yet  all  the  more  humbling  him  by  thus  refraining  ; 
Then  you  can  conceive  how  Mark  Landis  now  felt, 
Face  to  face  with  the  brown  beauty,  ready  to  melt 
With  chagrin  and  confusion,  in  this  awkard  fashion 
Mud-monument  standing  of  female  compassion. 


20  HELEN. 

VIII. 

The  fair  gypsey,  then  mounting  her  pony  once  more, 

Said  ingenuously  to  the  farm  amateur  ; 

With  a  slight  vein  of  humor  her  manner  pervading  : 

"  'Tis  apt  to  be  miry  where  cattle  are  wading  ; 

The  new  soil  is  springy,  and  water  flows  under  ; 

And  that  you  should  get  shughed*  sir,  is  surely  no  wonder." 

IX. 

It  was  hard  for  j-oung  L,andis,  though  trying  his  best, 

To  appreciate  this  sympathetical  jest. 

But  he  tendered  to  her  his  thanks,  hearty,  sincere, 

With  a  grace  worthy  of  an  old-time  cavalier. 

And  while  then  her  round  face  with  great  good  humor  beamed, 

And  a  dim,  undefinable  something  there  seemed 

Underneath  her  arched  eyebrows  acquaintance  to  beckon, 

She  said  : 

"  You  are  newly  arrived  here,  I  reckon." 

x. 

From  out  of  the  slime  that  lay  thick  on  Mark's  face, 
And  from  out  of  the  depths  of  defeat  and  disgrace, 
Beamed,  through  wide-open  windows  of  glowing  black  eyes, 
A  peculiarly  Puritan  look  of  surprise, 
As  his  critical,  cultured,  New  England  ear  heard 
That  robust,  dialectal  term  "  reckon  " — a  word 
Which  of  good  old  Kentucky  plantation-life  rang, 
Whence  her  accent  showed  clearly  her  ancestry  sprang. 
He  collected  himself,  and  replied  : 

"I've  been  here 
Through  the  bloom  and  the  harvest  that  gladden  the  year, 

*  I  may  say  to  those  not  in  the  West  reared,  that  he 
Who  holds  more  of  the  "juice  of  the  still  "  than  can  be 
Borne  with  equipoise  normal,  is  well  understood, 
In  the  prairie  vernacular  phrase,  to  be  sloughed. 


HKIyP.  27 

And  your  face  I  remember  not  yet  to  have  seen, 
Although,  had  I  once  seen  it,  'twould  surely  have  been 
Not  so  quickly  forgotten." 

This  last  clause  he  spoke 

To  himself,  and  by  no  means  to  her,  while  his  look 
On  her  singularly  contradictory  face 
Rested  still,  as  if  seeking  lost  thoughts  there  to  trace — 
A  face  now  to  him  seeming  to  bear  the  impress 
Of  a  deep-underlying,  sustained  earnestness. 

XI. 

' '  Had  I  been  here, ' '  she  answered,  ' '  you  could  not  have  failed 

To  discover  my  pony  and  me  ;  for  we  two  have  prevailed 

Hereabout,  like  the  ague,  since  I  was  a  child. 

We've  both  roamed  o'er  these  prairies,  two  creatures  run  wild  : 

I  go  where  my  Prince  takes  me  ;  and  that  is  the  way 

That  I  happened  to  cross,  sir,  this  prairie  to-day. 

Tell  me  truly,  old  Prince,  if  the  truth  I  have  said  ;" 

And  she  patted  her  pet  on  its  forelock-clothed  head. 

XII. 

Then  the  pony,  the  willful,  the  shameless,  shook  hard 
Its  old  shaggy  and  mannerless  poll,  and  thus  marred 

The  brown  maiden's  fine  story. 

' '  The  pony  has  ways 

Like  a  woman,"  said  L,andis,  "and  hence,  when  it  says 
So  decidedly  '  No, '   the  response  I  receive 
As  the  strong  affirmation  it  wishes  to  give." 

XIII. 

"Thanks!"  the  maiden  said,  archly  ;  "  your  liberal  rule 
Of  interpreting  would  have  been  helpful  at  school, 
Whence  but  lately  I'm  back  ;  and  this,  sir,  is  the  reason 
You  have  missed  seeing  us  for  the  whole  of  the  season — 


28  HELEN. 

My  pony  and  me.     And  we'll  now  have  to  go  ; 
For  old  Prince  as  you  see,  sir,  the  word  gives." 

"Not  so," 

Answered  Landis  ;  "  he's  nodding,  and  that  signifies 
Quite  the  contrary." 

XIV. 

Laughter  in  voice  and  in  eyes 

Was  her  only  response  ;  and  Prince  now  stamped  his  feet, 
And  she  gathered  the  reins,  when  Mark  said  : 

' '  Should  I  meet 

My  deliverer  after  to-day,  and  .desire  to  express 
For  her  timely  relief  my  renewed  thankfulness, 
By  what  name  shall  I  call  the  beneficent  sprite 
Who  roams  over  the  prairies  like  chivalrous  knight, 
And  new  farmers  from  dark  depths  of  misery  saves  ?  " 
As  off  cantered  the  pony,  she  said  : 

"Helen  Graves." 


CANTO  THIRD. 


ASPIRATION. 


I. 

That  the  Doctor's  prescription,  as  given  to  Mark 
In  the  shadows  of  those  granite  hills,  when  so  dark 
Was  the  vista  of  hope,  and  one  ray  only  beamed 
To  illumine  a  life  that  with  promise  had  teemed, 
Was  to  be  on  the  blossoming  plains  of  the  West, 
'Neath  conditions  more  kindly  to  earth's  toilers  blessed, 
With  a  conscience-strict  literalness  carried  out, 
There  was  no  longer  reason  nor  room  for  a  doubt. 

ii. 

Besides  sweating  like  Adam  in  tilling  the  ground, 
Mark  was  careful  himself  from  the  first  to  surround, 
In  the  way  the  good  Doctor  had  roughly  advised, 
With  groups  cheery  of  horses  and  cattle,  and  prized 
Very  soon  their  companionship.     This  became  one 
Of  the  few  gleams  of  pleasure  upon  him  that  shone 
In  this  life  so  unlike  his  bright  youth-pictured  world — 
This  life  stalwart,  and  sturdy,  and  rugged,  and  gnarled. 
From  his  wearisome  toil  in  the  fields,  it  was  rest 
To  consort  with  his  horses,  whose  fellowship  zest 
To  his  drudgery  gave  ;  their  strong  pulse  and  fresh  breath 
Seemed  to  frighten  the  dark,  lurking  shadows  of  death  ; 
And,  in  gazing  into  their  sincere,  honest  eyes, 
His  soul  gathered  the  strength  that  in  sympathy  lies  ; 
While  to  mount  them,  and  speed  o'er  the  smooth  prairie  sward, 
Sent  a  message  of  health  to  the  heart's  weakest  ward. 


30  HELEN. 

And  his  oxen  and  cows,  and  his  heifers  and  steers, 
These  he  petted  and  handled,  and  lent  them  his  ears, 
lyearned  with  care  and  with  patience  their  language,  and  granted 
Whatever  it  was  that  they  told  him  they  wanted. 
He  found  these  retainers  dumb  told  him  no  lies, 
And  no  guile  he  saw  lurk  in  the  depths  of  their  eyes. 

in. 

For  be  sure  that  your  true,  honest  beast  never  asks 
Any  thing  out  of  reason,  though  you,  by  your  tasks, 
Ask  of  him  things  beyond  either  reason  or  right, 
And  his  faith  to  the  death  with  the  cudgel  requite. 
When  a  man  plays  the  tyrant  o'er  men,  they  can  raise 
Revolution's  red  hand,  and  set  cities  ablaze, 
And  bear  war,  desolation,  and  death  in  their  path: 
Such  resort  is  left  manhood  oppressed  in  its  wrath. 
But  when  poor  beasts  of  burden  the  victims  are  made, 
(And  with  no  other  beasts  is  the  tyrant-r61e  pla}*ed,) 
For  them  sleeps  no  rebellion,  no  remedies  lie, 
But  in  patience  to  drudge,  and  in  silence  to  die. 

IV. 

From  these  creatures  the  lesson  of  patience  Mark  learned, 

And  more  clearly  from  their  rude  example  discerned 

Wherein  humble  conteutedness'  secret  consists, 

And  traced  duty's  straight  lines  through  sophistical  mists. 

This  experience  served  to  himself  to  reveal 

His  own  heart,  and  to  cause  him  for  others  to  feel. 

Thus  the  tenderer  springs  of  his  nature  were  brought 

Into  harmony  with  his  refinement  of  thought, 

And  a  life  that  was  fragrant  of  candor  and  truth 

Coursed  the  vale  of  these  years  of  his  death-shadowed  youth. 


ASPIRATION.  31 

V. 

As  the  winter  came  on,  and  the  nights  longer  grew, 

To  Mark  Landis  came  thoughts  of  the  day  at  the  slough  ; 

And  the  looks  and  tones  then  and  there  caught  and  preserved 

As  the  subjects  for  reveries  frequent  had  served. 

Then,  as  winter's  long  evenings  come  to  be  spent, 

And  as  heart  of  youth  ever  is  maidenward  bent, 

What  more  natural  sequence  of  that  strange  affair, 

Than  for  Mark  to  seek  out  the  dark-eyed  gypsey  fair, 

And  recall  the  acquaintance  so  oddly  begun? 

As  the  weeks  with  celerity  o'er  him  had  run 

Since  the  maid  on  her  pony  had  galloped  away, 

With  rich  laughter  that  rang  through  each  subsequent  day, 

Glimpses  frequent,  though  fleeting,  of  her  he  had  caught — 

Of  her  pony  and  her — as,  with  speed  of  youth's  thought, 

And  with  lightness  of  love,  ever  by  him  they  passed; 

And  it  seemed  that  ne'er  notion  that  pony  possessed 

Within  proximate  distance  of  Landis  to  veer, 

Or  to  slacken  its  pace,  but  straight  onward  would  steer 

Its  wild  course  ;  and  its  rider  his  greeting,  the  while, 

Would  acknowledge  in  gleams  of  so  gracious  a  smile, 

As  to  keep  up  the  fiction  that  Prince,  and  not  she, 

Caused  the  haste  in  which  ever  the  twain  seemed  to  be. 

H^  %  % 

VI. 

Up  to  this  point,  but  little  have  I  sought  to  say 
Of  Mark  Landis' s  mind.     I  began  this  my  lay . 
With  his  body,  which  had  at  that  time  bidden  fair 
Soon  to  let  his  mind  out  into  realms  of  the  air, 
Whither  no  bard  could  follow  it ;  nor  was  yet  shown 
Any  certainty  of  a  long  tenure  of  one 


33  HELEN. 

By  the  other,  in  this  final  experiment 

Made  in  darkening  shade  of  a  fateful  portent. 

But  as  minds  such  as  his  are  not  apt,  or  not  wont, 

In  the  struggle  of  life,  to  come  oft  to  the  front, 

When  they  do  come,  although  it  be  but  for  a  day 

In  the  heart  of  the  scene  of  existence  they  stay, 

They  belong  for  that  day  to  the  world,  and  to  time, 

And  their  names  should  be  sounded    in    golden-hinged  rhyme. 

Not  by  any  means  that  I  would  claim  any  gilt 

For  these  rhymes  in  all  bardic  humility  built ; 

But  I  would  that  I  had  the  charmed  Orphean  power, 

But  to  tell  in  one  rapt,  in  one  glad,  golden  hour, 

In  a  measure  pearled,  gilded,  and  diamond-wrought, 

And  with  rock-moving,  tree-stirring  melody  fraught, 

Of  the  freshness,  the  vigor,  the  strength  of  this  soul, 

Fighting  yonder  the  fight  against  earth's  direst  ghoul. 

VII. 

Art  had  come  not  to  L,andis  through  touch  of  charmed  hand, 

Or  through  waving  by  wizard  of  magical  wand. 

'Twas  a  growth  of  the  soul,  from  the  germ  planted  there 

By  the  Hand  that  wrought  earth  into  all  shapes  so  fair. 

In  his  soul,  in  his  mind,  in  his  heart,  was  one  thought, 

Which  informed  him,  inspired  him,  refined  him,  and  brought 

Aspirations,  and  dreams,  and  impulses  in  him 

Into  harmony  ;  while  the  divine  gift  to  limn 

In  its  myriad  phases  this  thought,  had  been  his 

From  his  boyhood.     And  large  was  the  measure  of  bliss 

And  of  joy  that  had  sweetened  his  life  ii^  the  task 

Of  unfolding  this  gift  ;  and  he  durst  even  ask 

Of  the  years  that  should  come,  that  his  new-budding  name 

Should  in  time's  chosen  season  bloom  forth  into  fame. 


ASPIRATION.  33 

This  one  thought,  all-engrossing,  all-grasping,  all-strong, 
Was  the  thought,  the  idea,  of  Beauty. 

VIII. 

The  throng 

Called  him  artist.     Himself  he  called  merely  a  bowed, 
Humble  worshiper  at  Beauty's  shrine — one  endowed 
Not  as  yet  with  the  mighty,  supreme,  deathless  boon 
Of  true  genius,  to  come  as  the  tide  should  flow  on, 
Which  he  yearned  not  to  hasten.     His  patience  was  great 
As  his  spirit. 

IX. 

The  fullness  of  time  to  await, 

In  the  calmness  of  trust  that  years  justice  shall  bring, 
Tests  most  justly  true  genius.     If  earth  too  soon  ring 
With  the  plaudits  of  fame,  O,  ye  gifted,  beware, 
Lest  the  laurel  unfading  your  brows  never  wear! 

x. 

Landis  deep  draughts  had  drunk,  in  his  sojourn  abroad, 
From  the  pure  springs  of  style  that  through  ages  have  flowed  ; 
After  masters  had  wrought  in  humility's  ways, 
And  with  painful  intentness,  through  cloud-shadowed  days  ; 
And  yet  ne'er  was  so  lost  in  his  love  reverent, 
As  in  lap  of  the  gray  past  to  linger  content, 
And  to  feel  it  were  vain  to  seek  one  beam  to  add 
To  the  brightness  that  made  the  world's  yesterday  glad. 

XI. 

After  Israel's  law-giver's  precept,  he  cast 

His  look  back,  to  "  ask  now  of  the  days  that  are  past  "  ; 

Yet  with  soul  reaching  forward  to  things  that  shall  be, 

And  with  vision  intuitive  gifted  to  see 

Whither  lay  the  true  path,  and  thus  clearly  discern 

Demands  Fame  makes  of  those  who  her  prizes  would  earn, 

3 


34  HELEN. 

He  could  never  sit  still,  though  it  be  at  the  feet 
Of  the  masters  in  whom  all  the  genius-gifts  meet. 

XII. 

But  to  him,  no  mere  abstract  idea  was  art; 

Not  a  something  from  daily  existence  apart, 

Like  a  hymn  chanted  in  a  cathedral,  sublime, 

But  yet  wide,  it  may  be,  of  the  heart  of  the  time  ; 

Not  a  theme  for  diversion  of  leisure  that  grew 

Heavy  on  white  hands  burdened  with  nothing  to  do  ; 

Not  a  dogma,  to  be  with  zeal  swallowed,  until 

From  divine  doctors  comes  new  prescription  to  fill  ; 

Not  a  dainty  conception,  to  be  championed 

By  effeminate  advocates,  mild  and  soft-toned  : 

But  a  positive,  masculine,  strong  element, 

Active,  healthy,  demonstrative,  and  withal  blent 

With  the  best  that  was  gentle,  and  tender,  and  true, 

In  life,  heart,  soul,  and  nature  ;  and  into  and  through 

The  whole  fabric  of  his  earnest  life  it  was  wrought  ; 

Formed  the  base  of  the  logic  of  all  of  his  thought  : 

Built  a  rainbow  to  span  each  day's  cloud-sorrowed  sky  ; 

Hung  a  lode-star  in  hope's  starry  firmament  high  ; 

Filled  the  darkest  of  nights  full  of  glory  and  light ; 

Gave  his  soul  content,  sweetness,  health,  courage,  and  might. 

XIII. 

Such  the  trend  of  his  mind  ;  but  no  still  prophet  he  ; 
For,  though  modest  as  maidenhood  seemed  he  to  be 
To  the  outward  world,  yet  when  occasion  came  truth 
To  declare  as  he  saw  it,  to  fervor  of  youth 
All  the  force  of  strong  manhood  he  added,  and  spoke 
In  a  tone  that  fell  stoutly  as  battle-axe  stroke  ; 
Then  would  rush  with  impetuousness  to  the  charge, 
While  his  black  eyes  glowed  like  a  Vulcanian  forge. 


ASPIRATION.  35 

He  was  vehement,  stormy,  as  augurs  of  war; 
Arbitrary,  assertive,  as  geniuses  are; 
Eloquent,  with  the  eloquence  stern  of  a  John 
In  the  wilderness,  crying  the  Sanctified  One. 

XIV. 

With  a  mind  thus  endowered,  a  soul  thus  illumed, 

What  might  not  be  forepromised,  what  not  be  assumed? 

Ah,  the  faintness  of  flesh!     Ah,  the  stoutness  of  spirit! 

Were  natures  in  earth-life  all  frames  to  inherit 

Proportionate  to  their  immortal  parts  made, 

O'er  earth's  highways  what  giants,  what  pigmies  would  tread! 

xv. 

When  young  L,andis  had  come  from  his  studies  abroad, 
He  was  placed  face  to  face  with  a  spectre  that  strode, 
Undeterred,  undebarred,  in  at  life's  open  porch, 
And  stood  waiting  there,  but  to  extinguish  its  torch. 
Thus,  through  brain-striving,   hope-hallowed,   heart-trusting 

days, 

He  had  come  in  his  course  to  the  parting  of  ways; 
And  a  parley,  at  this  supreme  juncture,  was  had 
With  the  guest  so  untimel}',  unwelcome,  and  dread. 
And  a  new  lease  of  hope  made,  on  terms  that  left  life, 
So  had  thought  the  lessee,  scarcely  worth  farther  strife. 


' CANTO  FOURTH. 

INSTRUCTION. 
I. 

Such  the  fragment  of  life,  dimly  lighted  with  hope, 

That  one  midsummer  eve  massive  coursers  drove  up 

To  the  Graves  farm's  great  gate,  which  was  swung  open  wide 

By  a  wild  group  of  younglings  in  Afric's  tinge  dyed  ; 

And  then  congeners  elder  of  that  dusky  race 

Took  the  team  into  care,  and  left  Landis  to  trace 

His  own  way  to  the  dwelling. 

n. 

It  may  happen  now, 

But  'twas  rare  in  those  days,  that  one  Ethiop's  brow 
Should  show  on  life's  horizon,  not  followed  by  more. 
So,  when  Mark  rang  the  bell  at  the  old  farm-house  door, 
Sable  servitors  twain  came,  with  bustle  and  din, 
Each  in  way  of  the  other,  to  usher  him  in. 
One  was  mighty  queen  regnant  o'er  hearth  and  o'er  hall, 
From  whose  mandate  exempt  was  no  hope-nursing  soul  ; 
And  the  other  was  one  of  those  imps  of  this  world, 
Through  .some  spite  of  the  other  among  mortals  hurled. 
Grand,  resplendent,  was  "  Aunty",  in  bandanna  bound, 
And  the  imp  mainly  robed  in  the  dust  of  the  ground. 
After  fierce  objurgations  a  many,  the  "  child 
Of  destruction"  by  "  Aunt}-  "  was  awed,  or  beguiled, 
Into  taking  "  Mars'  Landersi/'  "  hat  to  the  rack, 
And  his  card  to  "  Miss  Hellun." 


«  .5 

£  s. 


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INSTRUCTION.  39 

III. 

Mark  half  started  back 

When  before  the  brown  elf  of  the  prairie  he  stood  ; 
For  he  found  her,  it  seemed,  in  a  sorrowing  mood, 
As  he  saw  that  from  weeping  her  dark  orbs  were  red. 
"  I  regret  to  apologize,"  Helen  Graves  said, 
While  her  glance  briefly  over  the  caller's  form  strayed, 
And  a  smile  in  the  depths  of  her  brimming  eyes  played. 
Like  a  nymph  in  the  waves  of  a  translucent  spring  ; 
"  But  the  truth  is,  that  I  was  aroused  by  your  ring 
From  a  tale  I've  been  reading,  wherein  I  was  moved 
With  a  scene   that  too  strong  for  my  feelings  had  proved, 
Which  I  did  not  have  time  to  control  and  subdue, 
When  your  name  was  announced." 

IV. 

' '  And  may  I  trouble  you 

To  read  over  the  so  moving  passage  for  me  ?" 
"Willingly  ;  [pausing  slightly,  then  ;]  only,  you  see, 
It  is  French,  and  my  rendering  would  but  abate 
The  fine  force  of  the  language. ' ' 

v. 

"  You  need  not  translate," 
He  rejoined.     Helen  colored. 

"Assume,  please,"  she  said, 
"  That  another  apology  humbly  is  made." 
From  the  story  she  read.     As  before  he  had  been, 
Once  again  he  was  rapt  in  the  charms  of  "  Corinne". 

VI. 

Blessings  on  thee,  De  Stae'l!     What  millions  of  hearts 
Have  been  healed  by  the  balm  which  that  story  imparts  ! 
While  the  fair  Adriatic  melts  into  the  sea, 
Thy  grand  name  will  be  loved  in  redeemed  Italy  ; 


40  HELEN. 

While  hearts  still  bleed  and  break  in  the  old  realm  of  love, 
The  "  last  song  "  of  Corinne  will  a  sweet  solace  prove  ;  • 
And  while  France,  with  all  faults,  shall  gem  earth's  history, 
A  wide  world  of  true  souls  will  pay  tribute  to  thee. 

VII. 

The  particular  passage  in  question  she  read  ; 

And,  encouraged  by  him,  still  read  on,  while  he  made 

In  the  pauses  his  comments  ;    and  in  honest  strain 

Praised  her  accent,  o'er  which  he  much  marveled  ;  for  then, 

(Now,  ah,  me  !  near  a  third  of  a  century  gone,) 

In  this  land  which  instruction's  sun  feigns  to  shine  on 

With  beams  specially  favoring,  boarding-school  French 

Was  adapted  one's  feelings  with  anguish  to  wrench, 

Whose  heart's  finest  of  fibres  with  discord  were  stirred, — 

One  who  loved,  and  had,  loving,  in  purity  heard, 

And  oft  used,  this  queen  language.     And  yet  he  failed  not 

Criticism  to  mingle  with  praise,  pointing  out 

Where  he  deemed  some  improvement  might  aptly  be  made, 

To  his  fine  ear  suggested. 

vin. 

The  book  aside  laid, 
Landis,  interested,  and  desiring  to  learn 
Something  more  of  this  mind,  in  which  he  could  discern 
Signs  of  most  select  thought,  probing  gently  began, 
And  his  tentative  talk  an  enlarged  circuit  ran. 
He  first  plied  her  with  questions  concerning  the  course 
Of  her  studies  at  school,  and  sought  after  the  source 
Of  the  discipline  rare  which  he  clearly  perceived 
That,  bizarre  though  her  ways,  her  true  self  had  received. 
For  he  saw,  in  the  limited  sphere  of  her  thought, 
Such  a  thoroughness  as  compensation  had  wrought 


INSTRUCTION.  41 

For  the  moderate  number  of  paths  in  the  field 

Of  book-knowledge  that  she  had  yet  trod  ;  and  the  yield 

Which  had  come  from  her  close,  careful  gleanings  thus  far, 

Was  much  richer  than  girl-gleanings  commonly  are. 

This  idea  recurred  to  him  once  and  again, 

Nor  a  casual  word  thereon  could  he  restrain. 

IX. 

"Some  one   must,"  he   remarked,    "the  proof  surest  have 

shown 

Of  a  friendship  as  true  as  soul  ever  has  known, 
And  at  feet  of  such  friendship  a  tribute  have  laid, 
Which  in  girlhood  or  womanhood  seldom  is  paid. 
For  no  friend  to  a  girl  shows  such  test  of  friend's  truth, 
As  the  one  who  her  mind  guides  aright  in  its  growth. 
All  in  vain,  if  the  food  on  which  intellect  feeds 
Shall  the  sustenance  lack  right  development  needs, 
Will  be  wisest  of  precept,  and  best  of  example  : 
'Tis  in  shutting  out  thieves  that  is  kept  pure  the  temple. 
Some  supremely  true  soul,  with  an  instinct  refined. 
Must  have  guided  and  guarded  your  bourgeoning  mind. 
It  must  be  that  to  such  one  great  honor  is  due, 
For  I  dare  not  assign  the  main  credit  to  you, 
For  thus  steering  so  clear  of  the  vast  transient  mass 
Which  a  young  intellect  in  our  shamed  day  must  pass, 
Moving  on  o'er  the  sea  of  light  literature — 
The  drift,  sea-weed,  and  muck,  floating  islands  impure, 
And  debris  of  wrecked  souls,  which  long  rotting  have  lain, 
And  so  many  a  life-barque  have  whelmed  in  the  main." 

x. 

"  My  selection  of  reading  I  owe,"  she  replied, 
"  To  a  lady,  a  native  of  France,  who  supplied 


42  HELEN. 

For  long  years  the  dear  place  of  a  mother  to  me. 
Sad  her  lot  ;  lone  her  life  :  dark  her  heart-mystery. 
As  you've  been  kind  enough  in  myself  to  note,  sir, 
Some  effects  due  not  partly,  but  wholly  to  her, 
If  you  listen  in  patience,  I  will,  at  some  length, 
Tell  of  her  to  whom  mainly  is  due  what  of  strength 
There  may  seem  in  my  character." 

"  I  am  intent," 
He  replied,  "  and  my  ears  shall  be  earnestly  lent." 

"  Yet,"  she  said,  "bear  in  mind  that  there  is  to  reveal 
But  my  side  of 

THE   STORY   OF    MADAME    MARSILE. 

' '  She  had  loved  but  to  suffer  ;  and  her  suffering 

Was  such  only  as  death  its  releasement  could  bring. 

She  ne'er  told  me  her  sorrow  ;  she  said  it  was  one 

Only  God's  ear  could  hear  ;  she  must  bear  it  alone, 

And  alone  see  the  end.     She  had  with  us  a  home, 

At  her  choice,  till  life's  close,  but  was  fated  to  roam. 

Though  of  origin  humble,  such  culture  was  hers 

As  instruction  the  highest  and  choicest  confers. 

While  her  bearing  was  that  of  one  noble  of  birth, 

Yet  so  pure  was  her  nature,  so  rare  was  her  worth, 

As  to  make  one  in  her  gentle  presence  forget 

All  the  barriers  wide  by  society  set. 

The  great  world,  in  its  lights  and  its  shades,  she  had  seen 

Yet  her  heart  ever  dwelt  in  a  far-remote  scene, 

In  a  legend-filled  part  of  her  land.     It  was  there 

She  was  born  ;  and  she  said  in  its  bosom  so  fair, 

When  her  troubles  were  ended,  she  longed  to  be  laid. 

And  my  father  with  me  a  long  voyage  once  made 


INSTRUCTION.  43- 

To  that  spot,  to  learn  if  she  perchance  had  not  found 
The  sweet  rest  she  had  wished  in  her  own  native  ground  ; 
But  no  trace  of  her  living  or  dead  could  we  find, 
While  I  left  half  my  heart  in  her  birth-place  behind. 

' '  She  was  tender  and  loving-kind  ever  to  me, 

And  as  patient  as  fondest  of  mothers  could  be. 

Her  corrections  were  gentlest  instruction  ;  she  taught 

That  the  world  is  with  truest  of  happiness  fraught ; 

And  thus  carefully  strove  not  to  cloud  my  young  days 

With  the  sadness  and  anguish  that  lined  all  her  ways. 

Less  from  books  than  in  converse  familiar  she  taught, 

And  with  nature  my  mind  to  commune  closely  brought. 

She  went  out  with  me  into  the  fresh,  fragrant  fields, 

And,  while  we  plucked  the  blossoms  that  nature's  breast  yields, 

Taught  me  there  the  old  science  of  bud  and  of  blade, 

As  I  ne'er  could  have  learned  it  in  books  ;  then  she  made 

Me  with  rock-lore  familiar,  and  thus  my  mind  led 

Into  true  paths  of  study,  while  slowly  I  read 

Nature's  riddle. 

"  To  my  mental  grasp,  too,  she  brought, 
The  vast  treasures  with  which  human  records  are  fraught. 
She  unfolded  in  converse  the  world's  history, 
And  that  study  a  loving  one  thus  made  for  me. 
She  told  me,  as  a  nurse  tales  to  childhood  may  tell, 
The  long  story  of  Europe,  which  thus  I  learned  well. 
She  recounted  in  sadness  the  shame  of  the  old, 
And  the  glory  the  new  that  gilds  gladly  she  told — 
How  oft  ruled,  and  how  hard,  hoary  wrong,  yet  how  bright 
Earth  was  made  when  at  times  broke  the  sunburst  of  right. 
From  her  ne'er  escaped  tones  dear  to  cynical  ears  : 
She  lost  never  her  hope  in  the  world's  better  years. 


44  HELEN. 

Through  her  loved  voice  the  past  came  down  mellowed  to  me, 

And  the  present  I  learned  in  faith's  colors  to  see. 

I  forgive  the  dear  soul  for  the  too  partial  hand 

With  which  ever  she  garnished  her  own  cherished  land  : 

'Tis  but  what  I  have  found  in  all  text-histories  : 

His  own  realm  through  stained  windows  each  chronicler  sees. 

Hers  with  eye  reverential  saw  Madam  Marsile, 

As  his  saint  devotee  ;  and  her  spirit  I  feel  ; 

For  she  told  me  such  tales  of  her  native  Provence, 

As  my  young  heart  enlisted  in  fond  love  for  France. 

"  Of  my  reading  what  care  did  she  take!     Yet  she  gave 
Ever  clearest  of  reasons  for  interdicts  grave  ; 
And  would  say,  "with  an  earnest  and  soul-reaching  tone, 
That  will  ring  through  my  years  till  the  last  one  be  flown, 
That  '  Dirt  ever  is  dirt,  whether  trod  underfoot, 
Flecking  face,  soiling  robe,  or  besmirching  repute  ; 
\Vhetherblackening  tongue,  with  leer  suiting  look, 
Or  defacing  the  page  of  a  golden-bound  book  ; 
Or  yet  lurking,  with  meaning  impure,  insincere, 
In  the  sanctified  portal  of  maidenhood's  ear.  ' 

"  With  siipreme  healthfulness  and  with  wisdom  replete 

Was  her  varied  discourse.     In  tones  helpful  and  sweet 

She  imparted  the  lessons  of  life,  which  are  framed 

In  my  soul,  in  a  border  of  gold,  with  bright  jewels  begemmed. 

Once  we  passed  by  the  bed  of  a  brook,  nearly  dry. 

'  See  these  pebbles,'  she  said  ;    '  though  supinely  they  lie, 

Let  the  rain-swollen  rivulet  over  them  run, 

And  through  murmuring  ripples  they'll  laugh  to  the  sun. 

And  thus  we  human  pebbles  lie  listless,  until 

Some  great  sorrow  or  trouble  life's  drained  channels  fill  ; 


INSTRUCTION.  45 

Then  our  souls  through  their  waves  into  action  are  brought, 
And  our  measureless  griefs  into  rhythm  are  wrought. J 

"  In  the  realm  of  the  heart,  on  a  motherless  girl 
She  bestowed  with  rare  grace  wisdom's  purchaseless  pearl. 
She  said  :      '  Never  a  soul  in  all  ages  made  wreck. 
Did  it  listen  to  conscience's  first  gentle  beck  ;  ' 
That  '  Whoso  stands  and  waits  for  that  arbiter's  frown, 
Has  from  virtue's  high  dais  one  step  taken  down.' 
And  still  deeper  she  went,  and  gave  me  such  advice 
As  was  meet  for  ripe  years,  and  to  me  beyond  price  ; 
And  I  make  no  excuse,  sir,  as  young  maiden  might, 
For  thus  bringing  some  tenderer  truths  to  the  light 
Which  she  gave  me  to  cherish  until  day  of  need. 
Though  that  day  has  not  come,  yet  the  precepts  I  heed  : 
And  I'm  sure  they  are  such  as,  if  followed,  far  less 
Would  the  sum  in  this  world  make  of  life-wretchedness. 

"  Of  affairs  of  the  heart  speaking  once,  this  she  said, 
On  which  her  mystic  troubles  strong  emphasis  laid  : 
'  To  a  woman  the  tribute  man  highest  can  pay, 
Is  wide  open  before  her  his  breast-book  to  lay  ; 
And  her  truth  to  test  can  there  no  way  surer  be 
Than  this  act  of  superlative  heart-honesty. 
For  a  woman,  if  true  to  herself  and  her  God, 
And  if  worthy  the  crown  of  endowed  womanhood, 
With  but  honor  will  view  the  man  who  at  her  feet 
Lays  his  heart  and  his  hand,  though  she  has  but  to  meet 
Writh  rejection  his  proffer  ;  while  she  who  of  hearts 
Makes  a  traffic  by  fickle  and  trifling  arts, 
Against  virtue  commits  a  crime  well  nigh  as  great, 
As  the  selling  of  soul  at  the  strange  woman's  gate.  ' 


46  HELEN. 

With  deep  earnestness  moved,  she  maintained,  that  'First  truth. 

And  then  love,  is  the  order  of  sequence,  in  youth. 

In  maturity,  and  through  all  years  of  earth's  strife'  ; 

That  'A  love  without  truth  is  a  soul  without  life  '  : 

That  'A  woman  untrue  to  one  heart  on  the  earth 

Is  untrue  to  the  mother  from  whom  she  had  birth.' 

...     "  But,  ah  !  were  I  to  tell  you  all  things  that  she  said, 

'Twere  to  fill  all  the  nights  till  the  winter  be  fled. 

Heaven  guard  her,  if  living,  in  sorrower  pain, 

And  bring  back  the  dear  soul  to  her  home  here  again  ! ' ' 


XIII. 

The  girl  ceased  ;  and  her  eyes  with  tears  once  more  were  filled. 
"  Could  I  back  to  you  bring,"  Landis  said,  deeply  thrilled, 
"  One  so  noble  and  gentle,  so  tender  and  true, 
By  strong  wishing,  her  form  soon  would  gladden  your  view. 
I  have  not  been  surprised  at  the  portraiture  drawn 
Of  this  being,  whose  influence  over  your  own 
Has  with  good  been  so  fraught  ;  for  I  traced  such  a  hand 
In  your  formative  thought  ;  but  I  reverent  stand 
Before  her  bright  ideal.     In  dreams  I  have  seen 
Women  like  her  :  but  never  my  lot  has  it  been 
To  meet  one,   save  her  who,  while  youth's  fire   my   breast 

warmed, 

Was  from  parent  to  guardian  angel  transformed. 
One  in  sooth  ma}-  believe  such  choice  spirits  but  come 
Upon  earth  when  the  heart  with  deep  sorrow  is  dumb, 
Or  when  troubles,  grown  into  black  clouds,  burst  in  wrath, 
And  leave  ruin  and  misery  strewn  in  their  path, 
To  lift  burdens  from  breasts  with  their  weight  overborne. 
And  pour  balm  over  wounds  with  fresh  injuries  torn  : 


INSTRUCTION.  49 

Or,  when  all  of  humanity's  tides  have  run  low, 

To  requicken  the  soul,  to  rekindle  its  glow, 

And  inspire  men  and  women  with  ends  and  with  aims 

Above  those  which  the  groveling  earth-spirit  claims. ' ' 

xiv. 

"You  speak  truly  and  justly,"  in  voice  still  subdued 
She  responded.      "  But  when  in  my  visions  I've  viewed 
That  dear,  pale,  patient  face,  as  to  me  it  comes  back 
Along  memory's  grateful  though  sorrow-tinged  track, 
I  have  thought,  that  if  fate  in  reserve  had  for  me 
So  o'erflowing  a  measure  of  heart-misery, 
It  were  mercy  to  let  me  glide  out  of  the  strife 
In  the  unchastened  years  of  the  morning  of  life.  " 

xv. 

Then  they  passed  on  to  topics  of  livelier  tone  ; 
And  Mark,  when  he  his  tentative  plummet  let  down 
Into  depths  of  her  girl's  understanding,  discerned 
That  not  simply  from  nature's  store  more  had  she  learned 
Than  from  books,  but  that  what  of  the  ways  of  mankind 
As  in  flush  life  pursued  (not  in  fancy  outlined) 
She  had  conned,  was  that  from  observation  which  comes, 
Rather  than  from  perusing  of  multiplied  tomes. 
And  in  fact  it  was  evident  that  he  could  cite 
A  full  score  of  young  women  within  the  short  flight 
Of  a  fledgling  bird  fresh  from  its  nest,  who  of  books 
And  their  authors  could  chatter  like  rooks, 
And  by  long  odds  could  out-chatter  her.     But  this  fact 
Served  in  nowise  in  Landis's  mind  to  detract 
From  the  estimate  he  had  been  forming  of  one 
Who  had  furnished  new  food  for  his  thoughts  to  feed  on  ; 
And  he  now  the  more  strongly  inclined  to  view  her 
As  a  fresh  and  most  womanly  life-integer, 


50  HELEN. 

And  decidedly  worth  further  study,  and — well, 

Of  his  further  inclinings  I  shall  not  now  tell  ; 

But — what  minds  like  his  fashioned  of  all  things  prefer — 

He  had  found  Helen  Graves  a  superb  listener. 

XVI. 

Thus  the  evening  waned  ;  and  ere  they  were  aware, 

The  great  parlor-clock's  face  was  beginning  to  wear 

A  look  anxious  and  sharp,  with  hands  raised  to  its  brows  ; 

And  with  Landis  a  serious  question  arose, 

As  to  where  were  the  darkies,  and  where  was  his  team  ? 

But  in  yon  immense  kitchen,  enveloped  in  dream, 

And  before  a  huge  fire,  lay  swart  forms  bivouacked, 

Ready  promptly  to  spring  into  action  when  waked 

By  the  stern  voice  of  "  Aunty,  "  who  would  as  soon  think 

Of  projecting  her  soul  o'er  eternity's  brink," 

As  to  seek  her  repose  until  "  Miss  Hellun  "  slept, 

O'er  whose  slumbers  that  true  heart  had  watch  and  ward  kept 

All  her  years,  as  it  had  o'er  the  slumbers  of  her 

From  whom  Helen  had  life,  in  the  Southland  afar. 

XVII. 

The  team  duly  was  brought ;  the  good-nights  were  exchanged  ; 
And  Mark  Landis  drove  homeward,  while  through  his  mind 

ranged 
Thoughts  like  these  : 

xvni. 

"  Strange  that  here,  in  this  land  of  to-day, 
In  the  newness  and  freshness  of  nature,  away 
From  the  culture  and  brain  of  the  East,  I  should  find, 
In  this  girl  running  wild  on  the  prairie,  combined 
Qualities  I  had  thought  were  the  product  supreme 
Of  our  civilization's  established  regime, 


INSTRUCTION.  51 

Where,  on  fruitage  in  bright,  chosen  homes  of  its  own, 
Beams  with  brilliancy  focal  enlightenment's  sun  ! 
But  thus  far,  in  my  roaming  the  Old  World  and  New, 
Amid  all  natures  fair  that  have  burst  on  my  view, 
I  have  here,  in  this  nook  of  the  rough-seeming  West, 
Found  humanity  blossoming  forth  at  its  best. 

XIX. 

' '  Have  I  then  a  new  lesson  in  wisdom  to  learn  ? 
Is  this  one  of  the  earnests  that  I  am  to  earn 
In  this  field  of  instruction  and  struggle  combined, 
So  in  contrast  with  what  hope  to  youth  had  outlined  ? 
Am  I  here  to  discern  that  the  soul-germ  in  man 
Over-culture  as  oft  can  enervate  as  can 
Over-tillage  the  fructuous  strength  of  the  earth, 
And  to  soul,  as  to  soil,  carry  weakness  and  dearth  ? 

xx. 

' '  For  an  hour  of  diversion  I  went.     I  obtained 
Large  instruction  from  life's  rich  experience  gained. 
The  keen,  saucy,  and  challenging  eyes  I  had  deemed 
Half  invited  me  to  a  flirtation,  have  beamed 
A  whole  evening  with  but  sincereness  on  me  ; 
And  the -voice  that  had  once  seemed  a  hoyden's  to  be 
Rang  as  ring  voices  ever  where  life-issues  teem, 
And  rings  still  like  a  monitor  heard  in  a  dream. 

XXI. 

"  Is  then  all  of  the  credit  due  Madame  Marsile, 
And  to  Helen  Graves  none  ?     Does  not  nature  reveal 
Signs  of  latent  strength  borrowed  not, — even  that  she 
Thereof  lender  might  rather  than  borrower  be  ?  " 

XXII. 

Thus  mused  Mark,  while  returning  from  this,  his  first  call 
On  the  bright  beauty  who  had  smiled  soft  o'er  his  fall 


52  HELEN. 

In  the  Slough  of  Despond.     Odd  result,  this,  in  faith, 
From  event  so  grotesque  !     In  the  drama  of  breath 
We  enact  in  this  world,  ah,  how  close  interwrought 
Are  the  grave  and  the  comic,  in  deed  and  in  thought, 
In  life's  prose  and  its  poetry  !     Sorrows  impinge 
On  the  borders  of  pleasure,  and  tragic  dyes  tinge 
The  disguises  that  earth's  merry  maskers  employ, 
And  the  seams  of  the  robes  of  the  daughters  of  joy. 

XXIII. 

As  to  Helen's  original  strength,  both  of  mind 

And  of  soul,  I  have  views  of  my  own,  which,  defined 

To  Mark  Landis  that  night,  might  have  helped  him  to  solve 

Queries  still  ceasing  not  in  his  mind  to  revolve, 

And  with  puzzling  emotions  to  stir  up  his  breast 

After  he  had  betaken  himself  to  his  rest. 

xxiv. 

Men  and  women  ofttimes  their  ideals  transcend 
In  the  forming  of  character.     When,  with  clear  end, 
One  adopts  as  a  model  some  nature  benign, 
One  is  apt  to  invest  it  with  traits  half  divine  ; 
And  the  model  ere  long  grows  beneath  loving  hands, 
Till  embodied  with  all  of  the  graces  it  stands. 
Thus  are  idols  and  saints  formed  on  earth  ;  and  of  kin 
Is  the  worship  of  heroes. 

XXV. 

And  let  him  begin 

Who  has  taste  for  such  work,  that  of  battering  down 
All  these  idols  so  dear,  and  of  tearing  the  crown 
From  each  one  of  these  saints  :  not  for  me  be  the  task  ; 
Naught  of  this  glory  iconoclastic  I  ask. 
Let  alone  my  Penates  and  Lares,  I  cry, 
And  I'll  let  alone  yours.     Now,  if  you  choose  to  try, 


INSTRUCTION.  53 

Ye  inquisitors,  this  soul  of  mine  on  the  charge 

Of  idolatry,  then,  in  the  liberty  large 

Wherewith  He,  the  Grace-Giver,  hath  made  us  all  free, 

My  appeal  from  the  old  to  the  new  law  shall  be. 

xxvi. 

Full  of  fictions  is  life.     Even  strongest  of  laws 
Are  based  on  legal  figments.     Full  many  a  cause 
L,ooking  toward  humanity's  betterment  rests 
On  assumptions  enduring  not  logic's  stern  tests. 
Richest,  healthiest,  truest  of  wisdom  is  taught 
Through  thin  fabrics  of  fancy  in  fable-land  wrought. 
Yea,  in  parable-fiction  the  Nazarene  gave 
Supereminent  truths  which  a  lost  race  should  save. 
These  saints,  idols,  and  heroes  that  you  would  destroy 
Are  but  fictions  that  mortals  imperfect  employ 
To  embody  traits,  sentiments,  truths,  making  up 
Much  of  life's  better  aggregate.     Faith,  purpose,  hope, 
All  are  outlined  in  them.     Vandals,  pause  ere  you  deal 
Your  harsh,  leveling  blows  !     Truth's  own  spirit  may  feel 
Their  destructive  effects  !     Ay,  'tis  well  to  take  heed, 
I^est  you  make  the  Heart  once  crucified  freshly  bleed. 

xxvii. 

I  think  Helen  Graves  was  —  as  scarce  one  who  is  not — 
A  confirmed  hero- worshiper  ;  and,  having  sought 
An  exemplar  the  highest  in  Madame  Marsile, 
And  of  her  learned  with  healthiest  promptings  to  feel, 
And  to  think  in  a  crystal-clear  channel,  she  then, 
What  we  all  do,  (that  is,  bear  in  mind,  when  we  can,) 
Had  improved  on  the  model.     I  think  that  the  love 
Of  that  woman  so  noble  availed  but  to  prove 
All  the  truth  and  the  strength  of  our  Helen's  great  soul ; 
And  when  no  more  she  saw  of  her  who  held  control 


54 


HELEN. 


Of  the  springs  of  her  heart,  her  ideal  she  wrought, 
With  gold-garnishment,  into  an  idol,  and  brought 
Unto  it  all  the  tributes  her  mind  could  invent, 
Till  the  idol  became  one  in  which  there  were  blent 
Hardly  more  of  the  traits  that  graced  Madame  Marsile, 
Than  of  those  Helen's  life  had  not  failed  to  reveal. 

XXVIII. 

If  of  this  high  ideal,  grown  in  soul  and  in  heart, 
Helen  was  in  her  future  at  times  to  depart, 
And  o'ercast  was  at  seasons  her  lodestar  to  be, 
'Twould  be  but  a  time-worn  demonstration  that  she, 
In  her  spirit  as  fresh  as  the  first  breath  of  day, 
all  mortals  must  fail  who  perfection  essay. 


f  ttts     & 


CANTO  FIFTH. 

IDEALITY. 
I. 

When  Mark  L,andis  awoke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed 
That  the  sun  with  a  splendor  unusual  beamed, 
And  that  somehow  there  had,  in  the  night's  shadows  past, 
From  his  back  some  small  part  of  his  burden  been  cast ; 
And  thus  through  the  thick  clouds  that  had  hung  over  him, 
There  came  some  rays  of  hope,  e'en  though  feeble  and  dim  ; 
And  he  went  to  his  work  with  a  much  lighter  heart 
Than  a  twelvemonth  had  seen. 

ii. 

Whence  this  change  ?      Had  a  dart 
From  love's  quiver  pierced  barely  the  outermost  fold 
Of  his  breast,  into  life  warmed  its  breath  that  was  cold, 
And  from  out  of  its  winter  waked  spring  ?    .    .    .    He  repelled 
The  suggestion,  and  surely  would  promptly  have  quelled 
Any  rising  like  this  which  appeared. 

1 '  What  had  he  — 

He,  the  invalid,  struggling  for  leave  but  to  be,— 
What  had  he,  with  his  fraction  of  life,  that  a  breath 
Might  waft  out  into  blankness  of  night  and  of  death, 
To  do  now  with  such  feeling  as  love  ?     'Twas  for  him 
First  to  settle  accounts  with  the  creditor  grim 
That  stood  firmly  before  him,  inflexible  Fate, 
And  find  what  to  himself  was  the  balance  that  yet 


56  HELEN. 

Might,  if  any,  be  due.     As  to  this  new  event, 

'Twas  indeed  very  strange,  if  what  only  was  meant 

As  a  simple  exchange  of  life's  courtesies,  made 

Between  two  chance  acquaintances,  each  with  clear  head, 

Were  construed  into  anything  more  or  beyond  ! 

An  idea  absurd  ! ' ' 

in. 

Keep  your  scorn  within  bound, 

O,  Mark  !     None  hath  accused  you,  at  least  have  not  I  ; 
For  I  fancy  the  rift  in  the  cloud  that  your  sky 
Long  o'ercast  has  but  come  from  the  fact  that  your  mind 
Has  enjoyed  a  release  from  the  chain  that  confined 
Its  fresh  thoughts  ;  a  relax  from  the  tension  that  strained 
Your  young,  vigorous  nature,  which  thus  has  regained 
Something  of  its  old  strength  and  elastic  reserve. 
And  refelt  the  keen  touch  of  your  bright  spirit's  verve  : 
Yet  one  can  but  be  with  the  conviction  impressed, 
•That  if  such  an  effect  be  produced  in  your  breast 
By  a  mere  visit  for  your  diversion  thus  made, — 
A  bare  casual  call  on  a  young  prairie-maid, — 
If  so  quickening  be  the  result  to  your  heart  ; — 
(I  speak  now,  of  course,  of  its  mechanical  part, 
Which  performs  all  the  labor  divine,  and  sublime, 
Of  maintaining  life's  poise  through  the  beatings  of  time, 
And  adjusting  the  faintest  vibrations  that  thrill 
This  mysterious  being  of  ours  ;)  —  why,  to  fill 
The  prescription  again,  to  a  layman  would  seem 
The  advice  which  all  doctors  the  soundest  must  deem. 

IV. 

Whether  such  advice  was,  in  fact,  given  to  Mark, 
I  know  not.     But  I  know  that  the  sweet  meadow-lark 


IDEALITY.  57 

With  exhilarant  song  had  not  twice  taken  wing 

O'er  the  bloom-sprinkled  prairie,  the  following  spring, 

Ere  the  young  artist- farmer  repeated  his  call 

More  than  once,  more  than  twice, — but  I  can  not  tell  all 

Of  the  times  that  he  called,  for  I  was  not  a  spy 

On  his  movements  ;  though  I  could  tell  where  to  apply, 

Information  complete  thereupon  to  obtain, 

And  much  other  analogous  knowledge  to  gain, 

Which  I  give  not.     For  certain  industrious  souls 

A  most  faithful  count  kept  of  each  one  of  those  calls, 

And  by  no  means  thought  proper  to  burden  the  earth 

With  their  silence.     These  spirits  of  superfine  worth, 

As  they  have  evergreen  memories,  I  dare  say, 

Could  Mark's  comings  and  goings  relate  to  this  day. 

v. 

But  no  matter.     The  massive  and  radiant  bays 
Of  the  new  Yankee  farmer,  on  balm-breathing  days 
Of  the  swift-speeding  spring-tide,  as  well  as  on  eves 
Of  the  summer  all  golden  with  fruitage  and  sheaves, 
Were  the  swinging  gate  of  the  Graves  farm  driven  through, 
Or  his  handsomest  saddle-steed  hitched  thereunto, 
None  too  frequently  for  the  fair  Helen  ;  and  she 
Being  satisfied,  every  one  else  ought  to  be. 

But  which  one  of  us  all  has  yet  made  a  success 
Of  the  effort  of  running  life's  difficult  race 
In  a  manner  to  suit  all  spectators  ?     And  who. 
If  he  tried  to  suit  all,  would  with  credit  get  through  ? 

VI. 

I^et  it  not  be  assumed  that  Mark  L,andis  had  slacked 
In  his  energy,  or  that  his  labor  now  lacked 
The  same  interest  for  him  it  had  at  the  start. 
On  the  contrary,  now  he  more  closely  at  heart 


58  HELEN. 

Seemed  to  have  the  great  work  of  his  farm,  and  to  be 

So  absorbed  in  details  the  minutest,  that  he, 

'Twas  imagined  and  said  by  the  wise  lookers-on, 

Must  afford  very  poor  entertainment  for  one 

Prizing,  like  Helen  Graves,  conversation  refined  ; 

And  these  sage  ones  much  questioned  ' '  what  Helen  could  find 

To  endure  in  one  who  of  naught  save  hog  and  horse, 

And  corn,  pumpkins,  and  turnips  would  ever  discourse." 

VII. 

L,et  us  see  with  what  themes  L,andis  freighted  the  tides 
Of  his  converse  with  Helen,  in  drives  and  in  rides. 
Driving  out  with  her  once,  he  grew  eloquent,  while 
Speaking,  in  his  old,  ardent,  impetuous  style, 
Of  the  sister-relation  Art  ever  should  bear 
To  Religion. 

VIII. 

'Twas  evening.     Summer's  soft  air 

Gently  stirred  with  a  breath  from  the  wide  prairies  blown. 
At  its  full  was  the  white  harvest-moon.     Never  shone 
Stars  in  all  of  creation's  long  aeons  with  light 
That  was  purer,  sublimer,  more  heavenly  bright. 
The  fair  landscape  in  silvery  radiance  lay 
Spread  before  them  in  peace  —  the  fond  dream  of  the  day. 
The  all-prevalent  life  of  the  harvest-fields  slept, 
And,  while  sleeping,  breathed  deeply  with  fragrance,  which 

swept 

Ever  past  them,  diffusing  all  health-giving  scents, 
While  they  passed  on  from  farm  unto  farm,  as  through  tents 
Of  an  army  encampment  the  sentinels  move, 
While  the  foot-weary  soldiers  in  slumberland  rove. 


IDEALITY.  59 

IX. 

With  a  fervor  he  spoke  which  he  could  not  restrain, 
Yet  with  reverent  spirit.     And  like  the  refrain 
Of  a  grand  hymn  prophetic,  there  fell  on  her  ears, 
Rapt  in  listening  silence,  this  dream  of  the  years  : 

x. 

"  The  rare  bard  at  whose  feet  England's  grand  laureate 

In  the  morn  of  his  fame  in  rapt  reverence  sat, — 

The  bard  who  of  Endymion  fair  sang  in  strain 

That  brought  those  of  the  '  Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  '  again, — 

'Things  of  beauty  '  pronounced  'joys  forever  ' — a  truth 

Fresh  perennially  as  the  first  blush  of  youth. 

Where  a  rose  has  once  bloomed,  there's  a  memory  left 

Of  its  fragrance  and  loveliness,  e'en  when  bereft 

Is  the  place  where  it  budded  and  blossomed  of  all 

That  in  substance  the  rose  and  its  tree  can  recall. 

So,  where  once  a  creative  design  has  had  birth, 

And  on  canvas,  in  marble,  or  metal,  stood  forth, 

And  brought  joy  to  the  hearts  of  beholders,  the  thought 

That  the  master's  deft  touch  into  beauty  hath  wrought, 

And  hath  crystallized  into  pure  art,  will  endure 

When  the  tablet,  the  stone,  or  the  sheet  is  no  more. 

XI. 

"  Whosoe'er  hath  wrought  out,  in-  the  kingdom  of  art, 

But  one  beautiful  thing,  hath  thereby  borne  a  part 

In  true  worship.     His  heart,  and  his  mind,  and  his  soul, 

Have  in  part  tasted  of  the  ineffable  whale. 

He  has  entered  the  temple  ;  has  bowed  at  the  altar  ; 

And  though  in  the  faith  he  may  afterward  falter, 

His  eyes  the  Shekinah  once  having  beheld, 

He  is  thence  by  a  tie  to  the  Infinite  held 


60  HELEN. 

Which  takes  hold  on  the  things  in  eternity's  store, 
And  is  nearer  forever  to  God  than  before. 

XII. 

"  As  relationship  time  to  eternity  bears, 
And  our  earth-days  are  germs  of  the  winterless  years, 
So  the  love  of  the  Beautiful,  planted  within 
The  deep  breast  of  humanity  here,  is  akin 
To  the  hope  in  the  soul  of  immortal  life  there, 
And,  if  nurtured  aright,  ripens  taste  into  prayer, 
And  moulds  art  into  worship.     No  dream  of  the  brain, 
No  heart-longing  for  that  which  is  lovely,  is  vain  ; 
For  the  beautiful  tends  to  develop  the  true, 
And  the  true  to  the  heavenly  opens  the  view. 

XIII. 

"  O,  ye  shadows  of  Calvary  !     Once  through  your  gloom 

The  Unblamable  One  to  the  lowliest  tomb 

Passed  in  martyrdom  glorified  :  must  he  again 

Taste  the  gall-mingled  cup  for  redemption  of  men  ? 

Have  the  cycles  of  centuries  run  but  in  vain 

Since  was  rent  the  great  veil  of  the  Temple  in  twain  ? 

XIV. 

"  Though,  O  God  of  the  nations,  thy  mercy  be  long  ; 
Though  thy  anger  be  slow,  as  thy  right  arm  is  strong  ; 
And  though  through  the  Incarnate  One's  love-laden  word, 
In  just  judgment  falls  not  the  sharp,  up-lifted  sword, 
Yet  we  know  through  all  time  can  not  stern  justice  sleep  ; 
Not  fore'er  can  the  Christ  from  dire  punishment  keep 
The  false  peoples  who,  holding  His  Gospel  in  trust 
For  the  world,  have  allowed  it  to  trail  in  the  dust, 
And  belied  and  betrayed  it  in  bitterest  shame, 
And  with  cowardice  base,  and  have  made  of  His  name 


IDEALITY.  61 

A  safe  refuge  for  error  ;  a  cover  for  crime  ; 

An  excuse  for  the  sins  of  the  bad  of  all  time  ; 

A  warm  nest-egg  for  heresies,  endless  and  numberless  ; 

A  text  for  the  infidel,  tireless  and  slumberless  ; 

A  football  of  dogma,  for  priests'  bickerings  ; 

A  convenient  occasion  for  quarrels  of  kings  ; 

A  pretext  for  republics  from  men  rights  to  wrest, 

Under  guise  of  humanity, — demagogues,  dressed 

In  robes  statesmanlike,  leaguing  with  prelates  and  sages  - 

To  mould  into  statutes  the  hatreds  of  ages. 

xv. 

"Tell  me  not  there's  no  end  for  Art  yet  to  attain, 
While  th'  elect  bride  of  Christ  remains  sundered  in  twain  ! 
Say  not,  Art  has  no  mission,  while  each  faction  stands, 
Not  writh  loving  looks,  clasping  outstretched,  friendly  hands, 
Like  two  sisters  who  self  in  His  spirit  deny, 
And  in  love's  fondly  emulate  rivalry  vie  ; 
But  with  hate-heightened  scowls,  and  a  clutch  fastened  close 
Each  on  throat  of  the  other,  but  death  can  unloose  ! 

xvi. 

"  Guest  in  Bethany  welcomed,  once  more  visit  earth  ! 
But  not  yonder,  where  magi  brought  gifts  at  thy  birth  ; 
Not  in  Africa's  gloom,  nor  in  drowsy  Cathay, 
Thy  blest  visit  repeated  to  hungered  earth  pay  ; 
But  here,  in  the  bright  heart  of  enlightenment,  be 
Thy  milleuial  advent,  where  men  honor  thee 
With  lip-service,  while  strewn  in  their  hearts,  cold  and  still, 
Lie  the  memories  sacred  of  Olivet's  hill  ! 
Preach  once  more,  as  thou  didst  among  Judean  rocks, 
And  the  false  shepherds  tell,  who  are  tending  thy  flocks, 
O'er  a  literal  gospel  their  brains  straining  hard, 
To  rank  blasphemy  turning  thy  symbolized  word, 


62  HELEN. 

And  employing  thy  precepts,  with  purview  sublime, 
And  as  broad  as  the  sweep  of  the  circuit  of  time, 
In  augmenting  of  wrangling  and  kindling  of  strife, 
That  '  the  letter  but  kills,  while  the  spirit  gives  life  ! ' 
As  thou  once  didst  rebuke,  on  Capernaum's  coast, 
Rebuke  now  the  proud  wisdom  the  scholiasts  boast, 
Who  to-day  of  all  learning  broad  doubt-channels  make, 
And  the  faith  of  the  faithful  by  subtleties  shake  ! 

xvii. 

..."  Let  us  draw  men  from  brooding  on  problems  intense, 
Which  can  never  be  solved  in  the  dim  realms  of  sense, 
And  a  worship  through  forms  of  the  beautiful  teach  : 
For  as  well  through  the  eye  as  the  ear  may  we  reach 
The  great  heart  of  the  world,  which  the  true  prophet's  word 
But  awaits,  to  reverberant  life  to  be  stirred. 
Let  the  lie  into  gaunt  Dogma's  teeth  be  hurled  back, 
On  which  Bigotry  feeds  in  the  centuries'  track, 
That  Jehovah  loves  not  to  be  worshiped  in  forms, 
And  desires  but  abasement  of  us  mortal  worms. 
Though  in  manger  born,  yet  claimed  the  Christ  as  his  own 
The  grand  Temple,  and  taught  from  the  very  same  throne 
Whose  adornment  God's  self  supervised  ;  yea,  thence  spurned 
Those  its  courts  from  their  purpose  divine  who  had  turned. 

xvin. 

' '  Let  us  rebuild  the  temple  of  Beauty  once  more, 
Which  late  pagans  have  razed  —  its  old  glories  restore. 
Better  rankest  idolatry  through  all  the  earth , 
Than  theology  giving  perennial  birth 
But  to  heart-burnings,  bickerings,  hatreds,  and  feuds  ; 
Better  blind  faith  than  spirit  o'er  Hades  that  broods  ; 
Better  on  the  '  high  places  '  the  images  back, 
Than  refinements  of  thought  which  the  God-essence  lack." 


IDEALITY.  63 

XIX. 

Then  grew  calmer  his  tone  ;  and  like  stars  in  dark  skies, 

With  a  softened  look  beamed  his  large,  lustrous,  black  eyes  ; 

And  he  spoke  of  the  future  of  Art,  and  the  years 

It  must  live  'neath  a  cloud  ;  of  the  scoffs   and  the  jeers 

That  await  those  who  seek  to  wed  worship  and  art, 

Till  the  day,  in  God's  calendar  true  set  apart, 

When  the  mind  of  the  world  shall  be  fully  prepared 

Such  a  bridal  to  celebrate,  Heaven -declared. 

xx. 

"Yet  I  know,  that,  as  sure  as  the  years  are  all  God's, 
Will  the  time  come  when  Art,  bursting  up  'neath  its  clods, 
Shall  rebourgeon,  and  blossom,  and  fill  all  the  earth, 
And  be  first  in  men's  minds,  as  'tis  first  in  true  worth. 
I  am  sure  that  through  beauty  shall  purity  come  ; 
I  am  sure  that  through  harmony  strife  shall  be  dumb  ; 
I  am  sure  that  the  core  of  humanity's  heart 
Will  be  sound  when  'tis  filled  with  the  love  of  true  art. 
In  those  years  peace  shall  reign  under  every  star, 
And  mankind  shall  then  blush  for  the  ages  of  war  ; 
And  110  man  shall  stand  forth  with  a  claim  to  renown 
For  the  slaughter  of  men,  or  ask  fame's  laureled  crown 
For  the  wasting  of  lands,  and  for  ravaging  homes, 
Through  the  red  hand  of  might,  when  that  golden  day  comes." 

xxi. . 

And  thus  closed  the  long  monologue.     Wrapped  in  a  maze 
Of  awakened  thought,  dream,  and  delight,  with  the  gaze 
Of  her  deep  eyes  intently  fixed  still  on  his  own, 
Sat  the  brown  maiden,  noting  each  gesture  and  tone, 
And  his  words  well-nigh  deeming  inspired  ;  for  they  were 
As  a  new  revelation  of  truth  and  of  duty  to  her. 


C4  HELEN. 

With  such  eloquence  had  his  voice  pleaded  the  cause 
Of  a  Christianized  art,  as  in  her  to  arouse 
The  enthusiasm  but  by  such  natures  possessed  ; 
And  she  sat  with  her  soul  in  her  features  expressed. 
Had  the  words  not  then  failed  her  to  his  to  respond, 
He  had  realized  more  than  e'er  yet  how  profound 
Were  the  depths  of  her  nature.     Her  soul's  subtlest  sense 
Had  been  thrilled  with  his  earnest  and  nerved  eloquence. 
Though  he  spoke  as  addressing  her  girlhood,  yet  she 
In  her  womanhood  felt  the  full  force  of  his  plea  ; 
And  she  longed  for  the  language  to  him  to  reveal 
What  a  woman  can  think,  what  a  woman  can  feel. 
Yet  a  something  within  her,  she  could  not  tell  what, 
(For  most  surely  in  words,  as  a  rule,  she  lacked  not,) 
Clogged  expression,  and  silence  attentive  she  kept, 
While  a  flood  of  confused  feelings  over  her  swept. 

XXII. 

Who  shall  tell  whence  arise,  to  the  lips  and  the  tongue, 
Those  strange   moments  of  weakness,  when  thought-strains 

have  rung 

In  our  minds,  while  in  impotent  dumbness  we  stood, 
Lacking  words  with  the  adequate  meaning  indued 
To  express  them  ?     So  easily,  when  past  the  hour, 
Can  we  think  what  were  said,  had  we  then  had  the  power  ! 
Like  the  bugle-refrain  sadly  sounding  retreat 
When  the  day  of  a  battle  is  dimmed  with  defeat, 
Come  these  after-thoughts,  trooping  in  silence  and  shade, 
Past  where  lost  opportunities'  graves  have  been  made  ; 
And  by  each  striving  soul  thus  regret's  aftermath 
Must  be  gleaned  with  the  aloe  that  springs  in  life's  path. 


IDEALITY.  6{ 

XXIII. 

As  her  fresh,  grasping  mind  comprehended  the  scope 
Of  the  thoughts  Mark  had  uttered,  a  new  and  great  hope 
Was  to  Helen's  heart  born  :   'twas  that  she  might  be  deemed 
Fit  to  help  in  fulfilling  this  dream  he  had  dreamed,— 
To  glean  after  this  Boaz,  a  meek,  humble  Ruth, 
In  the  harvest-fields  whitened  of  duty  and  truth. 


CANTO    SIXTH. 


REPUTATION. 


I. 

Sped  the  months. 

Once  again  the  fall-plowing  was  done  ; 
And  two  seasons  of  bronzing  in  wind  and  in  sun, 
And  of  toughening  sinews,  and  hardening  hands. 
And  appeasing  with  hearty  food  hunger's  demands, 
And  of  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  weary,  had  wrought 
Such  a  change  in  Mark  L,andis  as  scarce  would  have  thought 
The  good  Doctor,  with  all  his  advice,  possible, 
When  he  bade  Mark  good  bye,  with  presentiments  full. 

ir. 

But  the  signs  in  this  year's  later  months  had  not  been 
To  his  health  as  propitious  as  last  year's  had  seen  ; 
For  the  over-exertion  he  lately  had  made, 
As  amends  penitential  for  courtesies  paid 
To  the  sweet  prairie-maiden,  had  told  on  his  frame  ; 
And  to  this  may  be  added  the  conflict  which  came 
In  his  breast  when  his  intercourse  with  her  commenced, 
And  had  never  abated.     His  heart  he  had  fenced 
With  the  strongest  resolve,  and  his  feelings  had  steeled 
Against  love's  soft  approaches,  so  as  ne'er  to  yield 
Unto  even  the  faintest  suggestion  thereof ; 
And  had  bent  all  his  energies  faithful  to  prove 


REPUTATION.  0? 

"To  this  purpose.     The  kind  of  an  interest,  rather, 
In  young  sister  taken  by  kind,  watchful  brother, 
In  Helen  Mark  took — or,  at  least,  sought  to  take. 
Ah  !     These  brother-and-sister  arrangements  to  make, 
»Tis  a  iar  from  safe  thing  for  young  persons  to  try, 
When  they  wish  to  sail  safely  love's  tanglements  by. 

III. 

I  presume  that  the  fact  may  as  well  here  be  told, 
That  Mark  Landis  had  found  something  taking  strong  hold 
Of  his  heart,  which  was  very  like  love  ;  and  the  more 
He  endeavored  to  drive  it  away  from  his  door, 
The  more  stoutly  it  clung  to  the  lintel.     Still,  still 
Was  the  old  story  told,  and  o'er  strongest  of  will 
Nature  gained  one  more  triumph. 

And  while  the  old  sun 

Through  yon  archway  his  courses  diurnal  shall  run  ; 
While  athwart  night  Orion  shall  sentinel  stand  ; 
While  the  sea  shall  caress  or  in  rage  smite  the  strand  ; 
While  the  moon  shall  her  quarters  all  noiselessly  fill, — 
Will  the  plaintiff  the  suit  win  of  Heart  versus  Will. 

IV. 

Mark  was  smitten  in  conscience. 

"  Was  this,  then,  the  length 

Of  his  great  resolution  ?     Was  this,  then,  the  strength 
Of  his  purpose?  " 

Ah,  Mark,  you  are  strong  where  ma}-  count 
Mortal  strength  ;  but  shame  not  at  your  failing  to  mount 
Without  wings  to  empyreal  heights.     You  have  proved 
To  be  human,  divine  not  at  all.     You  have  loved 
As  all  mortals  have  loved  since  young  Adam  first  blushed 
his  heart  with  the  new-born  emotion  was  flushed. 


68  HELEN. 

i 
V. 

Such  the  cause  of  the  storm  that  had  raged  in  his  breast, 
Robbing  him  of  his  peace  and  his  sore-needed  rest, 
Since  the  midsummer  glories  had  gladdened  the  land  ; 
Yet  his  step  had  not  faltered,  nor  wavered  his  hand  ; 
And  to  outward  appearances  he  was  as  fresh 
As  the  hawk  newly  sprung  from  the  falconer's  leash. 
This  was  shown  by  the  voice  that  expression  found,  when, 
At  the  cross-roads,  or  corners,  were  gathered  the  men 
Of  the  neighborhood. 

For  the  male  bipeds,  be  sure, 

Have  their  talk-tournaments,  where  they  closely  scan  o'er 
And  inspect  all  their  neighbors'  affairs,  inside  out 
Turn  them,  air  them,  and  shake  them,  and  hand  them  about, 
Quite  as  thoroughly  and  as  assiduously 
As  the  females  ;  the  difference  seeming  to  be 
Merely  this  :  that  the  m?n  gossip  'neath  the  wide  sky, 
Where  the  wandering  wind,  as  it  sweeps  idly  by, 
Catching  up  the  discourse,  bears  it  on  and  beyond. 
And  far  out  of  humanity's  gossiping  bound  ; 
While  the  women  their* tales  are  'twixt  walls  wont  to  tell, 
And,  confined,  these  brew  discord,  and  into  storms  swell, 
Which  sweep  down  through  the  valleys  of  life,  and  lay  waste 
Hearts  and  hopes,  and  work  wrongs  that  can  ne'er  be  effaced. 

VI. 

Once,  in  front  of  the  old  country  store,  the  high  seat 

Of  the  storied  vicinity  muse,  and  retreat 

Of  the  plenal  and  versatile  oracles  found 

In  all  places  where  wagging  tongues  human  abound, 

On  a  mild  afternoon  in  the  autumn's  brown  heart, 

While  the  blackbirds  were  noisily  piping  their  part, 


REPUTATION.  71 

And  the  quails  piping  theirs,  in  the  grand  symphony 
That  great  nature  wrought  out  of  her  stored  melody, 
Sat,  on  boxes,  and  barrels,  and  boards,  as  they  could, 
The  select  cdterie  of  the  whole  neighborhood. 
And  the  theme  that  was  up  for  discussion,  this  day, 
Was  Mark  Landis's  gifts  in  the  farm-tilling  way. 
On  the  popular  pulse  his  hard  labor  had  told  ; 
Each  voice  rustic  this  cardinal  virtue  extolled  ; 
And  the  muscular  multitude's  sympathies  showed 
A  most  notable  change  since  his  land  Mark  first  trod. 

VII. 

Farmer  Graves,  who  decidedly  stood  at  the  head 

Of  the  neighborhood  thought,  being  questioned,  thus  said  : 

"  It  speaks  fa'r  for  the  day  that  we  live  in,  my  friends. 

For  a  young  man  of  talent  and  brain  to  seek  ends 

L,ike  young  Mark  is  pursuing.      '  Old  times  come  again,' 

As  we  used  in  Kaintucky  to  say.     It  was  then 

That  the  highest  ambition  of  youth  was  attained 

When  right  fit  to  fill  stations  their  fathers  had  gained  ; 

And  then  tilling  the  soil  with  success  held  a  rank 

Beside  which  the  professions  in  dignity  sank." 

VIII. 

"  Es  fur  plowin'  an'  harrerin',  plantin'  an'  hoein'," 
Said  rough  Roger  Robbins,  "  an'  right  down  clean  mowin', 
An'  cuttin'  an'  huskin',  an'  shockin'  up  corn, 
He's  a  ripper  an'  staver,  as  sure  as  yer  born." 

IX. 

"An'  in  rakin'  an'  bindin',  an'  loadin'  on  hay, 
There's  no  man  wants  to  tackle  him  over  our  way," 
Added  big  Elam  Perkins,  in  voice  loud  and  deep, 
Which  had  never  known  silence,  except  in  his  sleep. 


72  HELEN, 

X. 

Spoke  old  Farmer  Dalrymple  :     "  Now  niiu'  what  I  tell  ye  : 
Ef  yer  takin'  that  chap  fur  a  green  'un,  he'll  sell  ye." 

XI. 

Quoth  smart  Jockey  Hamestrap  :     "  I'd  go  my  whole  pile 
On  his  jedgment  when't  comes  to  a  race  of  a  mile." 

XII. 

"  Got  a  heap  o'  horse  sense,"  said  the  manager  keen 
Of  the  peripatetical  threshing-machine. 

XIII. 

And  the  sage,  periodical  lightning-rod  man 
Had  his  say,  the  which  something  in  this  manner  ran  : 
"I  strike  all  sorts  o'  customers  goin'  my  round, 
An'  I  tell  ye  the  beat  o'  him  ain't  to  be  found." 

XIV. 

So  each  one  spoke  his  mind  ;  and  they  all  were  agreed, 
That  the  young  Yankee  farmer  "  would  do."     'Twas  decreed 
Thus  by  Public  Opinion. 

My  hat  off  I  take, 

As  I  pass,  and  a  low,  regulation  bow  make 
To  this  power,  in  order  to  be  in  the  fashion. 
Though,  if  I  must  "wreak"  my  true  "thoughts  on  expres- 
sion," 

'Twixt  you  and  me,  reader,  (not  farther  to  go,) 
I  rate  average  public  opinion  down  low  — 
Very  low.     'Tis  a  Gessler,  that  places  its  hat 
On  a  pole,  and  we  freemen  must  bow  down  to  that  : 
And  woe  be  unto  any  poor  son  of  the  cliffs 
Who  shall  seek  to  play  Tell,  with  his  buts  and  his  ifs  : 
"  Off  with  cap,  varlet  !     Instantly  all  scruples  swallow, 
Or  swift,  vengeful  punishment  surely  shall  follow  !  " 


REPUTATION.  73 

XV. 

In  the  course  of  two  seasons,  Mark  Landis  acquired 

A  repute  after  which  he  by  no  means  aspired. 

As  free  gift  came  to  him  a  boon  which  to  attain 

Struggle  thousands  through  soul-weary  lives  but  in  vain. 

While  his  fame  was  not  wide  as  the  gates  of  the  day, 

It  was  patent,  and  loud,  and  intense,  in  its  way  : 

And  this  is,  after  all,  what  most  pleases  the  ear  : 

Hot  ambition,  impatient,  loves  rather  to  hear 

Notoriety's  howls  welkin-echoes  awake, 

Than  slow-earned  judgments  just,  names  immortal  that  make. 

XVI. 

But  while  Landis  cared  not  for  this  neighborhood  fame. 
And  no  pleasure  to  him  from  its  small  glory  came, 
There  was  proof,  in  the  way  the  pleased  populace  hollowed, 
That  the  Doctor's  advice  had  been  faithfully  followed. 

XVII. 

—  Followed  only  too  rigidly  ;   for  if,  ahead 

Looking,  could  the  good  Doctor  the  story  have  read 

Of  the  fierce  moral  struggle,  which  still  fiercer  grew 

In  Mark's  breast,  he  would  surely  have  written  anew 

His  prescription  ;  as  no  human  frame  could  sustain 

Overlong  both  the  mental  and  bodily  strain 

Which  for  months  he  had  borne,  and  whose  burden,  at  last, 

Was  too  great  to  be  longer  endured. 

XVIII. 

On  the  past, 

On  the  recent,  sweet  past,  did  his  thoughts  linger  yet, 
With  a  mingling  of  pleasure  and  poignant  regret. 
"  O,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  could  this  glad  vision  be. 
What  a  wealth  were  in  store  in  existence  for  me  ! 


74  HELEN. 

What  excess  of  the  beautiful,  gentle,  and  true, 

Over  all  I  had  dreamed  !     Will  again  on  my  view 

Dawn  a  light  such  as  this  ?     Yet  I  ask  for  none  here  ; 

And  hereafter —  'twill  come,  the  hereafter,  I  fear, 

All  too  quickly.    Ah  !     Now,  when  'tis  weak  in  my  grasp, 

Life's  boon,  once  underrated,  I  eagerly  clasp." 

XIX. 

Then  remorse  lashed  his  soul  with  its  scorpion  whips. 

"  WThy  have  I,  with  a  lie's  spirit  liming  my  lips, 

Talked  to  her  of  life,  hope,  ardor,  beauty,  and  truth  — 

I,  a  shadow  of  death,  and  a  ghost  of  lost  youth  ? 

Why  have  I  placed  myself  before  her,  in  the  spring 

Of  her  life,  in  her  blossoming  years  —  I,  a  thing 

That  to-morrow  may  be  among  things  of  the  past, — 

Challenging  and  inviting  her  love,  which  would  last 

Through  the  years,  while  I  only  endure  for  a  day  ? 

In  her  eyes  I  have  read,  methinks,  love's  dawning  ray. 

If  aright  I  have  read,  then  the  more  shame  for  me; 

For  so  fatal  a  love  for  her  never  must  be. 

No,  it  never  shall  be  !     'Twere  a  burning  disgrace 

To  link  my  life  of  mold  with  that  spirit  of  grace. 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  halt,  though  I've  now  gone  too  far." 

xx. 

He  decided  the  question.     For  him  and  for  her 
The  right  thing  to  be  done  was  to  give  her  up  now, 
While  he  could  with  some  graciousness  ;  now,  while  the  blow 
She  could  bear  ;  now,  while  strength  was  yet  left  him  to  break 
The  dear,  wrongly  forged  chain  ;  now,  when  she  could  awake 
Without  harm  to  her  heart,  from  the  dream  ;  now,  when  earth 
For  her  life  such  a  field  of  bright  promise  held  forth. 


CANTO  SEVENTH. 


RENUNCIATION. 


I. 
It  was  Indian  Summer. 

O,  muse  that  inspired 

The  charmed  pen  of  him,  ne'er  by  a  base  passion  fired, 
Who,  in  strains  that  will  live  while  the  plains  of  the  West 
Shall  with  each  blooming  spring  be  in  fresh  verdure  dressed, 
Of  "  The  Prairies  "  sang  when,  in  garb  primal  spread  out, 
They  reflected  the  glory  of  Deity's  thought; 
Be  with  me  while  I  stray  with  two  mortals  among 
Scenes  of  beauty  as  bright  as  bard  ever  hath  sung, 
Which  in  this  season  nature  doth  richly  unfold. 
.     .     .     Like  a  ruby-set  diamond,  bordered  with  gold, 
Was  each  day  of  the  radiant  cluster  that  crowned 
Such  an  autumn  as  seldom  the  sun  in  his  round 
Shines  upon.     The  fields  still  were  unshorn  of  their  green; 
Blossoms  here  and  there  still,  the  frosts  scorning,  were  seen; 
And  the  groves,  with  whose  selvage  the  prairies  were  fringed, 
Were  with  purple  and  scarlet  and  russet  dyes  tinged. 

ii. 

The  great  bays  of  Mark  Landis  once  more  through  the  gate 
Of  the  Graves  farm  had  entered,  and  now  stood  in  wait 
For  its  pet  and  its  pride. 

When  she  came,  Helen  seemed 
Robed  in  joy  as  in  beauty,  and  from  her  eyes  beamed 


76  HELKX. 

But  the  light  of  true  happiness;  then,  as  Mark  dwelt 
On  the  vision,  for  one  glowing  moment  he  felt 
His  stern  purpose  relax,  while  the  old  chains  he  wore, 
And  his  spirit  bent  'neath  her  enchantments  once  more. 

in. 

As  the  reins  in  his  practised  hands  lightly  he  took, 
Helen  gazed  at  the  beautiful  team  with  a  look 
That  she  would  not  have  dared  to  bestow  upon  him — 
At  the  arch  of  their  necks,  and  their  cleanness  of  limb, 
At  the  grace  of  their  movements,  the  strength  of  their  thews, — 
'Twas  a  team,  she  thought,  worthy  to  grace  the  Queen's  mews. 
On  their  lithe,  supple  bodies  their  muscles  were  laid 
Far  more  neatly  than  finest  robe  Worth  ever  made 
On  the  form  of  Parisian  patron.     And  proud 
Did  they  seem  of  their  this  day's  additional  load. 
Ah!  how  lightly  they  lifted  their  feet  as  they  stepped, 
And  what  time  as  they  flew  o'er  the  prairie  the)-  kept! 
With  arched  nostrils  distended,  and  manes  flowing  free, 
That  bay  team  with  its  load  was  a  rare  sight  to  see! 
So  thought  all  of  the  farmers,  as  L,andis  drove  by; 
And  each  wife  and  each  daughter,  with  penetrant  eye, 
Peered  through  door  held  ajar,  or  through  lightly  raised  cur- 
tain, 
And  "  that  match  "  set  down  among  human  things  certain. 

IV. 

Onward  sped  the  bright  bays.     In  each  pulse  of  her  frame 
Helen  Graves  felt  the  life  of  the  scene. 

When  they  came 

To  a  by-road  that  wound  through  a  beautiful  grove,— 
Such  a  grove  as  no  poet  could  see  but  to  love, 
In  which  Petrarch  might,  Laura  adoring,  have  strolled, 
Or  which  Virgil  in  golden  verse  might  have  extolled,— 


RENUNCIATION.  V? 

The  meandering  course  of  the  track  Mark  pursued, 
Which  seemed  nowhere  to  lead  save  to  depths  of  the  wood. 

v. 
He  now  let  the  bays  walk. 

How  the  grove's  still  aisles  rang 

With  the  songs  that  the  wood-birds  from  million  throats  sang! 
It  must  surely  have  been  that  they  o'erflowed  with  glee, 
To  have  such  listeners  to  their  wild  melody. 
.     .     .     Yes,  good  audience  had  they,  these  jubilant  birds; 
For,  to  Helen's  perplexity,  few  were  the  words 
That  her  escort  had  uttered  yet  during  the  drive — 
He  whose  joy  was  in  making  occasion  alive 
With  his  superabounding  discourse;  while  the  tact 
(Or  unwisdom)  to  force  conversation  she  lacked. 
And  thus  sat  these  two  beings,  accordant  in  heart, 
But  in  thought  wide  as  utterest  strangers  apart. 

VI. 

Mark  at  length  said,  half  musing: 

' '  The  songs  these  birds  sing 

Are  the  self-same  refrains  that  they  sang  in  the  spring; 
And  they  trill  them  in  fully  as  cheerful  a  tone, 
Though  the  days  of  their  singing  here  soon  will  be  flown. 
Why  were  mortals  not  wiser,  in  tasting  of  joy, 
Did  they  copy  the  birds,  who  detect  no  alloy 
In  their  pleasure,  and  warble  their  strains  while  they  may, 
Ringing  ever  of  hope  and  a  happier  day?  ' ' 

vn. 

This,  expressed  in  unspeakable  sadness  of  strain, 
Helen's  heart  thrilled  with  keenest  sensations  of  pain. 
She  responded  not.     Words  had  no  meaning  for  her 
In  that  moment.      Her  breast  and  her  breath  ceased  to  stir. 


78  HELEN. 

E'en  her  heart  into  silence  was  hushed. 

What  ,was  this, 

That  was  shaping  in  shadow  to  darken  her  bliss  ? 
What  was  this,  which  like  first  cloud  of  tempest  had  sprung 
In  a  trice,  and  her  glowing  sky  now  overhung  ? 
In  dumb  terror  she  could  but  sit  waiting  until 
The  dread  cloud-burst  should  come,  and  her  sorrow-cup  fill. 

vin. 

He  continued,  while  tender,  and  cadent,  and  low 
Were  the  tones  of  his  voice;  and  the  tremulous  flow 
Of  his  now  subdued  speech  -was  in  contrast  most  strange 
With  the  swelling,  impassioned,  and  vehement  range 
Of  his  talk  when  discussing  with  ardor  the  themes 
Of  art,  ethics,  and  life,  and  life's  fancies  and  dreams: 

IX. 

"  Helen  Graves,  the  short  year  I  have  known  you  has  been, 

In  the  waste  of  my  life  here,  an  oasis  green. 

It  has  been  a  large  comfort  with  you  to  commune; 

It  has  seemed,  when  with  you,  that  my  heart  was  in  tune 

With  the  world.     And  the  flattering  spirits  that  wait 

On  the  goddess  of  Hope  have  still  kept  me  elate 

With  the  thought  of  what  might  be  if  dreams  were  not  dreams, — 

With  illusory  visions  they  weave  of  the  beams 

Ever  from  their  divinity's  glance  flowing  forth, 

To  enchant  and  delude  the  weak  children  of  earth. 

.     .     .     But  these  sirens  no  longer  my  soul  with  their  strains 

Must  retain  in  their  witchery's  dangerous  chains." 

x. 

Helen  Graves' s  large  eyes  larger  still  seemed  to  grow, 
And  in  wonderment  o'er  his  whole  being  to  throw 
Inexpressibly  delicate,  charmed  radiance, 
As  she  turned  full  upon  him  her  sweet,  gentle  glance. 


RENUNCIATION.  79 

And,  Mark  Landis,  I  trow  that  few  men  ever  won, 
Ere  the  book  of  a  woman's  heart  open  was  thrown, 
And  ere  love  had  the  right  of  declarement,  a  gaze 
Such  as  that  which  met  yours  in  the  soft  autumn  haze, — 
A  long  look  which  embodied  inquiry,  surprise, 
Sadness,  longing,  and  doubt,  and  veiled  faintly  the  eyes 
With  a  mist  which  might  melt  into  tear-drops,  and  prove, 
With  too  strong  demonstration,  the  presence  of  love, — 
Yet  did  not;  for  she  rallied,  and  mistress,  once  more, 
Of  herself,  self-asserting,  was  calm  as  before. 

XI. 

He  had  paused,  as  in  doubt.     And,  as  Helen  well  knew 
He  ne'er  halted  for  words,  which  sprang  ever  and  flew 
At  his  beck,  she  thought  strange  that  this  king  of  discourse 
Should  lack  language  to  give  his  thoughts  freedom  and  force. 
Durst  she  deem  the  embarrassment  caused  by  the  rush 
Of  love's  tidal  flood  into  his  heart?     A  red  flush 
From  hot  hope  at  this  trust-signal  mantled  her  brow; 
But  it  quickly  retreated. 

xn. 

' '  No !  were  love  aglow 

In  his  breast,"  brooded  she,  "  he  had  met  me  half-way, 
When  from  due  reserve  went  my  eyes  just  now  astray. 
He  would  then  have  made  captive  my  fluttering  heart; 
For  'twere  his  for  the  asking.     'Tis  plain  I've  no  part 
And  no  lot  in  his  love     ....     In  his  love  ?     Can  he  love 
With  a  love  that  enduring,  sustaining,  would  prove  ? 
.     .     .     Ah,  yes;  he  his  ideal  could  love,  could  he  find 
Upon  earth  some  epitome  in  womankind, 
Bearing  all  of  the  graces  and  virtues;   but  me — 
No,  he  ne'er  can  love  me:  that  dream  never  can  be." 


80  HELEN. 

And  a  sigh  escaped  from  her,  which  vainly  she  tried 
To  repress. 

XIII. 

From  the  truth,  in  this  world,  oft  how  wide 
Do  the  best  of  us  get!     L,isten,  Helen,  and  learn 
What  e'en  your  keen  perception  has  failed  to  discern. 

XIV. 

Landis  now  thus  resumed: 

"  For  these  many  long  days, 

Helen  Graves,  in  delight  I  have  wandered  your  ways. 
At  the  first,  it  was  only  the  prankest  of  girls 
That  I  saw,  with  great  eyes,  and  a  wealth  of  loose  curls, 
And  a  naive,  ingenuous  air,  which  called  forth 
My  alert  sense  of  gallantry,  ere  of  her  worth 
I  knew  aught;  and  she  failed  not  to  interest  me 
From  the  start,  as  a  fresh,  piquant,  keen  novelty. 
But  I  looked  'neath  the  surface,  and  saw  a  mind  filled 
With  original  thought,  and  a  heart  that  was  thrilled 
With  emotions  the  deepest,  and  gentlest,  and  best; 
And  a  soul,  noble,  lofty,  and  true,  whose  behest 
Mind  and  heart  ever  duly  obeyed;  and  there  stood 
Typed  before  me,  not  girlhood,  but  strong  womanhood. 
Then  it  flattered  my  pride  that  this  woman  gave  ear 
To  the  visions  and  fancyings  I  had  held  dear; 
And  the  embryo  cynic  had  gathered,  at  length, 
From  the  girl  under  tutelage,  vast  spirit-strength." 

xv. 

The  great  bays  now  walked  slowly;  the  birds'  songs  were  low, 
And,  save  them,  the  grove's  silence  seemed  deeper  to  grow. 
On  his  words  she  was  hanging  with  bating  of  breath — 
With  intentness  as  fixed  as  the  shadow  of  death. 


RENUNCIATION.  81 

XVI. 

"  I  then  found  that  the  teacher  had  changed  to  the  taught; 
And  that  in  me  my  pupil  instruction  had  wrought 
In  a  branch  of  life's  learning  wherein  I  was  proved 
To  be  greatly  deficient.     Taught  thus,  I  have  loved.'1 

XVII. 

Slower  still  were  the  steps  of  the  bays.     Not  the  trace 
Of  a  breeze  moved  the  air;  and  the  birds  for  a  space 
Almost  paused  in  their  songs;  while  the  boughs,  interlaced, 
Of  the  maples  and  sumacs  a  deeper  shade  cast. 

XVIII. 

"Yes,  I've  loved.     I  have  erred.     To  myself  I  have  done, 
And  to  you,  Helen  Graces,  [his  gloved  hand  hers  upon 
Laying  tenderly  then,]  grievous  wrong. 

' '  I  have  sought 

Your  acquaintance,  and  from  its  sweet  web  have  I  \vrought 
An  attachment  unpardonable. 

' '  I  came  West, 

For  my  o'erwearied,  swift-beating  pulse  to  seek  rest, 
Or  get  ready  to  die;  with  a  flickering  chance 
That  the  climate  my  health  and  my  strength  might  enhance. 
I  am  still  on  the  shadowy  side  of  the  test, 
And  an  unstead}7  heart  palpitates  in  my  breast. 
As  I  am,  I've  with  love  no  concern,  and  no  right 
To  palm  off  this  burnt  taper  of  life  as  a  blight 
Upon  your  fresh  existence.     One's  self  'twere  to  lend 
To  the  basest  of  uses. 

XIX. 

' '  And  this,  my  dear  friend, 

Is  what  I  for  some  time  have  been  waiting  to  say- 
To  your  kindly  and  reason-bent  ear;  and  to-day 
Came  the  courage  to  me,  my  clear  duty  to  do, 
And  the  right,  and  the  just,  between  God,  me,  and  you." 


82  HELEN. 

XX.      * 

Then  he  ceased. 

The  bays  finally  came  to  a  halt 
In  a  spot,  in  the  heart  of  the  grove,  where  a  vault 
Of  the  maples,  and  sumacs,  and  oaks,  had  been  made; 
And  the  thorn-apple  trees,  and  wild  grapes;  and  the  shade 
In  the  arbor  which  nature  had  formed  was  so  dense, 
And  the  silence  that  reigned  so  profound,  that  a  sense 
Of  solemnity  seemed  the  retreat  to  pervade, 
And  to  sanctify  this  close,  sequestered,  rare  glade, 
While  a  feeling  the  tenant's  whole  being  possessed, 
As  if  waiting  the  presence  of  some  angel-guest. 

XXI. 

His  gloved  hand  was  still  resting  on  hers.     He  had  talked 
Hitherto  with  his  eyes  on  his  steeds  as  the}'  walked, 
As  if  counting  their  steps. 

Now  he  turned  in  his  seat, 

And  upon  her  face  fell  his  full  glance,  there  to  meet 
One  that  beamed  in  all  gentleness,  kindness,  and — no, 
Not  in  love — love  that  forth  goes  as  carrier-doves  go, 
With  an  unrestrained  sweep  of  their  pinions  as  light 
And  as  free  as  the  air  through  whose  realms  they  take  flight; 
For  love's  spirit  had  back  from  the  windows  withdrawn 
Where  its  features  a  moment  before  had  been  shown; 
And  her  look  neither  gleam  of  love-light  nor  one  ray 
Of  her  heart's  wild  impatience  emitted.     There  lay 
In  the  depths  of  her  liquid,  majestic,  dark  eyes 
Such  a  calm  as  in  ocean's  abysmal  deeps  lies. 

XXII. 

Then  she  said: 

"  You    have  told  me,  Mark  Landis,  your  tale. 
'Tis  as  sad  as  the  wailing  of  autumn's  last  gale. 


£  -a  — 
<5   3  « 


~      1C 

s  -~ 


RENUNCIATION.  85 

.    You  have  loved;  you  have  sacrificed;  out  of  your  heart 
You  have  torn  what  had  formed  of  existence  a  part. 
This,  the  first  and  the  only  love  you  have  e'er  known, 
From  your  casemated  breast  you've  determinedly  thrown, 
At  the  bidding  of  duty.      'Tis  brave;   'tis  heroic; 
'Tis  worthy  the  soul  of  some  classical  stoic. 

XXIII. 

"  I  have  this  but  to  say,  in  response  to  what  you 

From  your  heart's  secret  chambers  have  brought  forth  to  view: 

That  the  kindness  you've  shown  to  the  girl  whom  you  met 

In  your  path  and  befriended,  she'll  never  forget. 

It  was  yours,  had  you  chosen,  to  humor  her  ways, 

And  to  flatter  her  vanity  through  fulsome  praise. 

Yet  you  followed  not  after  the  way  of  the  world; 

And  you  told  her  her  faults,  not  in  censurings  hurled, 

Like  sharp  javelins,  but  to  her  reason  appealing, 

The  things  that  'twere  better  to  strive  for  revealing. 

And  as  you  discerned,  then,  the  out-reaching  soul 

Of  the  woman  unfolding,  you  showed  her  the  goal 

Of  true  womanhood,  and  its  reward.     You  would  chide, 

At  times,  when  the  mild  chidings  were  wounding  to  pride; 

But  when  chiding  was  past,  you  took  her  by  the  hand, 

And  showed  where  lies  in  sunshine  Taste's  beautiful  laud. 

XXIV. 

'  'And  you  held  up  for  her  the  lamp  Art  keepeth  bright, 
To  illume  in  earth's  shadows  things  born  in  the  light, 
While  she  saw  where  the  pathways  of  life  might  be  made 
All  to  blossom,  if  soul-true  along  them  she  strayed. 
Then  you  told  of  a  union  of  worship  and  art, 
Which  for  her  oped  new  vistas  to  soul  and  to  heart, 
And  to  life  gave  new  purpose,  a  new  garb  to  earth, 
A  new  meaning  to  duty,  to  hope  a  new  birth. 


86  HELEN. 

XXV. 

'  Though  you  may  not  have  known  that  the  person  whose  path 

You  thus  strewed  with  blooms  fairest  earth's  floral  store  hath, 

Was  with  gratitude  filled  toward  one  who  had  given 

To  her  strivings  aims  after  which  great  souls  have  striven, — 

Who  with  thoughtfulness  rare  had  discerned  the  true  need 

Of  a  spirit  deprived  of  its  mentor,  and  freed 

From  restraint  when  most  requisite,  and  who  had  made 

Of  her  life  something  more  than  a  light  masquerade, — 

'Tis  a  pleasure  to  tell  you  that  such  is  the  case. 

From  the  tablet  of  memory  naught  can  efface 

Any  word  you  have  uttered  since  we  two  first  met. 

What  the  heart  treasures  most,  the  mind  cannot  forget.'11 

XXVI. 

Here  she  paused. 

Had  she  uttered  too  much  ?     Thus  she  asked 
Of  herself.     Was  it  wrong  that  her  spirit  still  basked 
In  the  sunlight  his  presence  diffused  ? 

XXVII. 

O,  tell  me, 

Who  shall  set  the  true  bounds  of  the  heart's  modesty  ? 
Who  .shall  mark  where  expression  must  yield  to  reserve  ? 
Who  shall  point  where  emotion  should  lead,  and  where  serve  ? 
Who  shall  tell  when  heart-treasures,  long  hidden  away, 
May  be  brought  forth  and  shown  in  the  broad  light  of  day  ? 
Who  shall  say  when  the  tones  of  the  tenderer  cords 
Of  the  harp  of  the  heart  may  be  swelled  into  words, 
Through  which  waiting  affection's  long-muffled  refrains 
May  break  forth  into  music's  soul-comforting  strains? 

.     Who  these  queries  with  full  satisfaction  shall  solve, 
May  the  fair  Helen  Graves' s  equation  resolve. 


RENUNCIATION.  8? 

XXVIII. 

But  sujficit,  that  what  from  the  heart  she  had  said, 

Had  stirred  up  to  rebellion  the  realm  of  the  head. 

Swift  thought  swept  through  her  brain.     Prudence,  taking 

alarm, 

Sharp  analysis  made,  and  found  boding  but  harm 
The  advance  she  had  ventured.     Propriety  weighed 
And  found  wanting  the  utterance  warm  she  had  made. 

XXIX. 

"  He  asks  not  whether  /have  loved  him,  or  have  not! 
Does  he  know  ?     Does  he  care,  the  least  tittle  or  jot  ? 
Before  casting  me  from  him,  why  does  he  not  show 
He  has  had  at  least  some  sort  of  claim  to  me  ?      .     .     .     No ! 
•  That  I  ne'er  should  have  said!     Let  him  ask  if  I  love — 
Not  so  coolly  assume  it!     I  may  make  you  prove 
Your  position,  proud  autocrat!       ...        O,  that  he'd  give 
To  my  starved  heart  a  chance  to  tell  him  that  I  live 
But  to  love  him!  —  that  death,  should  it    come,  would  but 

crown 

The  affection  eternal  that  laughs  at  death's  frown! 
Having  thus  spoken  once  with  his  soul,  face  to  face, 
I  could  bear  aught  of  trouble,  grief,  pain,  or  disgrace; 
I  could  sacrifice,  yield,  bend,  renounce,  or  deny; 
I  could  wait  upon  hope;  I  could  live;  I  could  die; 
Whatsoever  should  be  his  thought,  quest,  or  behest, 
Be  it  life,  death,  or  death-in-life,  that  were  the  best,— 
'Twere  to  me  all  in  all:  that,  indeed,  were  earth's  end — 
Unto  death  with  him,  husband,  or  lover,  or  friend!  " 

XXX. 

Then  she  turned  to  Mark  Landis,  who  silent  had  sat, 
Waiting  still  on  her  words,  which  were  glad  music  yet 


'88  HELEN. 

To  his  heart;  looked  as  searching!}-  into  his  eyes 
As  she  durst  for  some  sign  that  to  her  might  suffice 
To  lift  gently  the  latch  of  the  door  of  his  heart, 
Therein  enter,  and  be  of  its  rich  life  a  part; 
But  looked  vainly. 

And  now  the  revolt  in  her  breast 
Gained  in  strength;  and  she  said,  in  her  rebel  unrest, 
What  were  better  said  never — so  prone  are  we  all, 
On  occasion,  to  say  what  voice  ne'er  can  recall, 
And  what  years  of  regret,  howe'er  deeply  they  groove, 
From  the  records  where  registered  cannot  remove! 

XXXI. 

"Then,  Mark  Landis,  you  thought  what  my  gratitude  meant 
You  had  read,  and  read  rightl)-,  as  dawned  no  dissent; 
And  you  learned  how  to  pity  me;  though  you  learned  not 
The  deep  lesson  through  all  love's  experience  taught. 
That  contemned  most  by  women  within  the  heart's  realm 
Is  the  pit}1  bestowed  when  assumed  sorrows  whelm. 
For ^ you  doubtless  presumed  that  the  woman  you  taught 
In  life's  wisdom,  and  lead  to  new  regions  of  thought 
In  an  atmosphere  earth's  common  life  far  above, 
Had  with  you  in  the  web  of  so  fatal  a  love 
Been  entangled,  while  on  the  charmed  plant  she  had  fed 
Whose  beguiling,  sweet  essence  her  heart  had  thus  led 
Into  languor;  and  so  you  served  merciful  notice 
Upon  her,  no  longer  to  eat  of  this  lotus." 

XXXII. 

"And  surely,"  he  pleaded,  "  what  was  it  but  kind, 
To  give  warning  thus  ?  ' ' 

XXXIII. 

"  Nothing.     I've  no  fault  to  find 

With  your  thoughtful  compassion;  but  merely  suggest, 
That,  in  case,  though  susceptible,  she  to  her  breast 


RENUNCIATION.  89 

Such  a  phantom  had  never  yet  clasped,  as  a  love 
Of  the  nature  of  this  one  most  surely  must  prove, — 
In  case  she  of  the  lotus-plant  had  not  partaken, — 
Occasion  there  were  none  her  heart  to  awaken 
To  any  particular  danger  that  lies 
In  her  path:' 

XXXIV. 

She  was  through.     She  did  not  rest  her  eyes 
Then  upon  him,  in  angry,  or  scornful,  or  grieved 
Earnestness,  as  from  sense  of  injustice  received; 
But  she  turned  them  away,  with  a  feeling  of  guilt; 
And  her  words  had  not  died   before  she  would  have  knelt 
Unto  him,  and  with  face  in  the  dust  pardon  craved, 
Had  he  only  in  sweet  ruth  the  way  for  her  paved. 

XXXV. 

The  blow,  well  aimed,  with  force  most  effective  came  down. 
Mark  received  it  in  silence.     No  murmur  was  drawn 
From  his  lips,  as  the  barbed  arrow  into  his  heart 
Pierced,  and  wrought  there  its  own  keenly  exquisite  smart. 

XXXVI. 

At  the  stake  when  the  martyr  the  fagot  awaits, 
To  his  spirit  unbent  through  the  Beautiful  Gates 
Glimpses  come  of  a  crown  for  him  there  held  in  store; 
Grafting  glory  to  come  on  the  pain  of  the  hour. 
To  the  patriot  dying  for  country  comes  death 
Robbed  of  half  of  its  terrors,  if,  yielding  his  breath, 
He  can  see  the  bright  banner  in  victory  wave 
Which  his  blood  is  poured  out  to  defend  or  to  save. 

XXXVII. 

Helen,  know,  a  grace  martyrdom  hath  of  its  own: 
Robbing  it  of  this  grace,  you  humiliate  one 


90  HELEN. 

Who  his  spirit  joy's  beggarly  remnant  denies, 

And  presents  his  true  heart  for  the  dread  sacrifice. 

"Tis  the  savage  alone  who  indignity  heaps 

On  the  captive  for  torture's  refinement  he  keeps. 

Befits  vengeance  no  heart  unto  womanhood  leal, 

Nor  accords  it  with  aught  learned  from  Madame  Marsile. 

XXXVIII. 

But  Mark  saw  on  her  part  no  such  vengeful  intent, 
And  addressed  to  himself  this  severe  argument: 
' '  With  love  blind,  I  was  fain  to  dispel  the  fond  charm 
Of  the  dream  that  I  deemed  to  her  heart  boded  harm; 
But  I  find  that  myself  am  the  dreamer  deceived, — 
That  alone  of  fond  fancies  a  web  I  have  weaved, 
Which  enmeshes  but  my  credent  heart,  leaving  hers 
All  as  free  as  the  breeze  that  these   autumn  leaves  stirs. 
What  have  I  to  complain  of  ?   The  end  I  had  sought 
Is  attained.     The  affair  I  have  honestly  brought 
To  an  issue,  and  she,  as  I  hoped  for,  therefrom 
With  her  heart  unimpaired  by  love's  struggle  has  come." 

XXXIX. 

Yet  this  argument  stilled  not  his  heart. 

Reader  mine, 

Hearts  love-stricken  how  many  in  count,  dost  opine, 
In  the  sweep  of  the  years  since  earth's  primeval  spring, 
Have  been  soothed  by  assuagement  that  logic  could  bring  ? 
Count  the  mortals  who've  looked  upon  Deity's  face  ; 
Count  the  prophets  who  fleckless  have  blossomed  in  grace  ; 
Count  the  eras  when  peace  hath  prevailed  throughout  earth  ; 
Count  the  famed  who  are  held  at  exactly  their  worth  : 
Of  the  aggregate -then  a  fair  average  take, 
And  approach  to  the  sought-for  result  thou  may'st  make. 


CANTO  EIGHTH. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


I. 

"  Now  for  home,  my  bright  beauties!  "  at  length  Landis  said. 

"  Come,  my  pets!  my  Boy  Charley!  my  Gentleman  Ned! 

Do  you  see,  lads  ?     The  sun  is  far  down  in  the  sky, 

And  you'd  grumble  should  I  let  your  suppers  go  by  ; 

For  the  stomach  of  beast  must  be  ever  supplied, 

Like  the  craving  heart  human,  let  what  may  betide. 

Like  as  not  you  are  wondering,  my  bonny  pair, 

Why  we're  halting  so  long  in  this  resting-place  rare  : 

And,  indeed,  it  were  difficult  giving  a  reason, 

Except  'tis  to  taste  the  last  joys  of  the  season. 

For,  my  chums,  it  is  very  few  drives  more  we'll  take, 

Ere  the  gladdening  sunshine  these  groves  will  forsake  ; 

And  the  chill,  cutting  blasts,  sweeping  fields  bleak  and  drear, 

And  cold,  comfortless  rains,  and  harsh  frosts,  will  be  here  ; 

And,  like  friendship  untreasured,  or  love  unrequited, 

By  winter's  iced  breath  autumn's  heart  will  be  blighted." 

n. 

Helen  marked,  when  he  called  his  steeds  each  by  its  name, 
What  a  cognizant  look  to  their  glowing  eyes  came: 
How  their  ears  were  thrown  back,  as  his  language  they  heard, 
Spoken  to  them,  not  at  them.     He  uttered  each  word 
So  distinctly,  so  low,  in  so  gentle  a  tone, 
That  as  well  his  bay's  hearts  as  their  ears  were  his  own. 


92  HKLKX. 

And,  when  stopping  to  water  them,  crossing  a  stream 
That,  like  music's  strains  heard  in  a  half- waking  dream, 
Issued,  purling,  from  out  of  the  heart  of  the  grove, 
While  re-checking  them,  plainly  he  told  them  their  love 
(Than  a  woman's  love,  thought  he  then,  far  less  complex) 
Was  returned;  for  he  patted  their  heads  and  their  necks, 
The  while  murmuring  tenderly  into  their  ears 
Words  nor  woman  nor  beast  e'er  reluctantly  hears. 

in. 

"Ah!  "  sighed  Helen,  as,  watching  these  movements  of  his, 
In  the  carriage  she  sat  amidst  sad  reveries; 
"  Would  he  but  myself  treat  as  he  does  a  dumb  beast, 
My  heart  hungered  would  sit  at  a  royal  love-feast." 
She  grew  jealous  of  this  prancing  team  of  Mark's  pride, 
And  for  her  to  green  seemed  the  bay  steeds  to  be  dyed. 

IV. 

'Twas  1)ii t  little  they  said  on  the  homeward  return. 

.     The  horizon  with  sunset  fire  ceasing  to  burn, 
The  thin  mantle  of  twilight  was  o'er  the  earth  thrown, 
While  as  yet  night  refrained  from  reclaiming  her  own. 
Soon  the  grove's  deepened  shadows  were  left  far  behind, 
And  across  the  broad  prairie,  with  speed  of  the  wind, 
And  along  the  smooth,  turf-lined,  and  dew-dampened  road, 
Sped  the  great  Landis  bays,  with  their  marvelous  load, — 
With  their  lading  of  beauty  and  truth  interwreathed; 
With  their  lading  of  love  that  was  breathed  and  unbreathed; 
With  their  lading  of  memories  richer  than  gold; 
With  their  lading  of  soul-deep  emotions  untold: 
With  their  lading  of  pangs,  disappointments,  and  fears; 
With  their  lading  of  wrecks  of  crushed  dreams  of  the  years; 
With  their  lading  of  words  that  brought  pain  in  their  course; 
WTith  their  lading  of  sorrow,  regret,  and  remorse; 


FRIENDSHIP.  93 

With  their  lading  of  longings  dispelled  with  a  breath; 
With  their  lading  of  hopes  lost  in  shadows  of  death. 

v. 

Speed  on  swiftly,  Boy  Charley!     Speed,  Gentleman  Ned! 
For  a  freight  such  as  this  you  have  never  yet  had, 
And  may  ne'er  have  again!     In  the  vehicle  whirled 
O'er  the  glad,  green  expanse  nature  here  has  unfurled, 
Bearing,  mingled  together,  yet  strangely  apart, 
Thought  of  brain,  hope  of  soul,  and  emotion  of  heart, 
Grievings,  cloud-drifts  of  trouble,  and  burdens  of  care, 
Hearts  unbalmed,  wrongs  unrighted,  and  shapes  of  despair, 
A  true  symbol  forth -shade  wed  there  seemeth  to  be 
Of  life's  barque  sailing  over  time's  far-sweeping  sea. 

VI. 

Helen  Graves!     There  is  time  for  you  yet  to  retract! 

Words  of  yours  have  brought  wounding!     They  will  retroact! 

And,  as  sure  as  God  lives,  ere  the  years  roll  away, 

Soon  or  late,  with  the  very  same  wound  which  this  day 

You  have  dealt  to  Mark  L,andis  your  own  breast  shall  bleed. 

In  the  hush  of  this  softening  twilight  take  heed! 

Is  it  well  to  slay  love  in  the  house  of  its  friends  ? 

Over  love's  bleeding  form  is  the  place  for  amends! 

L,et  your  heart  plead  for  kindness  and  grace.     L,ook  ahead: 

Count  the  years  that  may  flow  o'er  the  face  of  its  dead 

Ere  so  wealthy  a  spirit  again  yours  shall  greet, 

Ere  so  gentle  a  Mentor  your  footsteps  shall  meet. 

VII. 

Yet  once  more,  Helen  Graves!     Let  fair  honesty  plead! 
You  have  been  indirect — spoken  words  to  mislead; 
Have  been  false  to  yourself,  and  false  witness  have  borne 
Of  your  heart  to  Mark  Landis.      In  justice  now  turn, 


94  HELEN. 

And  do  right  to  yourself,  and  to  him!     If  you  part 

In  the  shadows,  O.,  let  them  be  such  as  the  heart 

Can  enshrine  in  its  crypts,  with  dead  years  that  were  blest, 

And  not  such  as  will  haunt  you  like  ghosts  of  unrest! 

To  your  soul  let  the  precepts  of  wisdom  appeal 

Which  came  e'er  from  the  lips  of  dear  Madame  Marsile. 

.     .     .     Helen!     Though  in  your  seasons  of  scorn  you  may 

try 

Still  to  feed  your  poor  famishing  heart  with  a  lie, 
You  will  never  succeed  —  stones  will  not  do  for  bread; 
And  some  morn  you  ma}-  waken  and  find  it  is  dead ! 

VIII. 
.      .      .     Will  she  yield?      .     .     .      Ah!      Still  deepens  the 

twilight,  and  star 

After  star  peeps  through  gates  of  the  heavens  ajar; 
And  she  still  remains  silent,  or  merely  responds 
To  the  causual  questionings  Landis  propounds, 
To  kill  time. 

Yes,  yes;  such  was  the  object  of  both; 
And  thus  each  to  speak  words  that  were  earnest  was  loth. 
.     .      .     To  kill  time! — They  in  spirit  were  putting  to  death 
Something  greater  than  time,   something  dearer  than  breath! 
For  the  love  that  is  true  love  laughs  year-count  to  scorn; 
And  the  love  that  is  pure  love  is  not  mortal  born: 
'Tis  no  more  to  be  tried  by  the  time-tests  of  earth, 
Than  it  is  to  be  gauged  by  man's  standard  of  worth. 

IX. 

Speed,  speed  on,  Charley  Boy!     Speed  on,  Gentleman  Ned! 
The  faint  hope  of  a  heart-reconcilement  seems  fled ! 
Make  all  haste,  lads,  their  homes  and  your  stable  to  reach; 
For  the  sooner  their  farce  ends,  the  better  for  each ! 


FRIENDSHIP.  95 

X. 

Now,  the  charmed,  tender  hour  of  the  twilight  is  gone; 

All  the  stars  have  appeared,  with  their  diadems  on; 

And  in  silver  the  moon  is  all  robed  for  her  march 

Through  the  planet-gemmed,  world-lighted  triumphal  arch. 

'Tis  a  night  full  of  beauty,  and  glory,  and  truth; 

Such  a  night  as  makes  age  feel  immortal  in  youth; 

Such  a  night,  perad venture,  as  smiled  on  the  earth 

When  the  shepherds  were  told  of  the  Promised  One's  birth. 

But  it  should  have  been  dark  as  old  Egypt's  dense  night: 

Not  a  star  should  have  proffered  its  genial  light 

To  guide  over  the  breakers  these  self-sundered  souls, 

Making  wreck  thus  upon  misconstruction's  rough  shoals. 

For  'twere  better  in  silence  and  darkness  to  be, 

Than  to  let  the  pure  starlight  such  sacrilege  see. 

XI. 

The  long  drive  nears  an  end,  as  all  earth-jaunts  must  do; 
And  the  lights  of  the  Graves  farm  are  coming  in  view. 
.     .     .     Slacken  speed,  handsome  bays!      For  a  recognized 

thrill 

Of  the  reins  tells  you  such  is  your  young  master's  will. 
Yet  still  slower,  lads!     There,  that  will  do — a  slow  walk. 
You  must  see  he  has  clearly,  beside  the  dull  talk 
Which  has  been  dragging  on,  something  earnest  to  say; 
And  your  hankered-for  suppers  you'll  have  to  delay. 

XII. 

'.  -v  .     .     Landis  said,  as  he  turned  toward  Helen  a  look 
Which  of  utterest  heart-desolation  partook: 
"Have  you  been,  like  myself,  in  this  silence-charmed  hour, 
With  its  beauty  impressed,  its  sublimely  weird  power  ? 
Have  you  felt  that  God  comes  at  such  hours  near  to  earth, 
And  his  benison  gives  to  all  mortal  of  birth  ?' ' 


9C  HELEN. 

XIII. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  thrill  of  hope-waking  surprise; 

"  I  have  drunk  of  the  draught;  "  and  her  soul  filled  her  eyes. 

•'  It  is  glorious!     While  o'er  the  prairie  we've  flown, 

Such  a  joy  in  the  sight  as  I  never  had  known 

I  have  had,  though  I  oft  feast  with  raptured  delight 

On  the  scene.     Greater  beauty,  I  think,  has  the  night, 

Than  the  kingliest  day." 

xiv. 

"  If  not  so,"  he  replied, 
"  It  is  holier.     And  in  this  calm  eventide, 
With  the  hallowing  trace  of  God's  kiss  on  its  brow, 
Helen  Graves,  let  me  ask  for  your  friendship — not  now, 
Simply,  but  I  shall  need  it  in  years  that  pass  o'er — 
And  it  may  be  but  months  ere  I  need  it  no  more! 
Be  it  months,  be  it  years,  that  are  yet  mine  to  be, 
'Twill  be  little  for  you;   'twill  be  vast  wealth  for  me. 

xv. 

"An  assured  larger  life  may  soon  open  for  you. 
And  your  broadened  horizon  diminish  the  view 
Of  the  scenes  which  have  been  to  my  vision  so  fair, 
And  have  caused  life  to  me  a  new  aspect  to  wear. 
'Tis  across  the  new  years  that  my  hand  I  now  reach, 
And  implore  in  your  hall  of  remembrance  a  niche. 
My  life  here  will  in  lines  that  are  narrow  be  cast: 
There  will  be  naught  to  sunder  the  present  and  past 
In  my  heart,  except  death." 

Helen  shrank,  then,  as  though 

A  chill  wind,  with  the  grave-damp  bedewed,  had  swept  through 
Between  his  soul  and  hers.— 

"  Your  existence  will  be 
With  diversified  interests  filled;  and  of  me 


FRIENDSHIP.  9? 

If  you  think,  it  will  be  an  exceptional  task 
Of  the  mind;  that  exception  is  all  that  I  ask. 
'Twill  no  straki  be  for  me  to  remember:  indeed, 
To  forget  were  work  sorest  for  heart  as  for  head. 
I  recall  your  own  words,  whose  refrain  lingers  yet: 
'  What  the  heart  treasures  most,  the  mind  cannot  forget.'  " 

XVI. 

The  deep  blush  which  then  mantled  her  cheeks  and  her  brow, 

By  the  kindly  connivance  the  fates  oft  allow 

Of  the  moonlight  and  starlight,  was  hid  from  his  view; 

And  he  only  observed  that  the  light  brighter  grew 

In  her  dark,  glowing  eyes,  which  upon  him  she  turned, 

With  a  look  in  which  no  heart-resentment  yet  burned, 

As  she  said,  in  deep  tenderness,  kindness,  and  ruth, 

And  a  tone  that  rang  full  of  her  old- wonted  truth: 

XVII. 

' '  You  shall  never,  Mark  L,andis,  knock  twice  at  my  breast 

For  a  boon,  if  it  be  such,  that's  yours  without  quest. 

You  have  asked  for  my  friendship  in  years  yet  to  come: 

It  is  yours  in  all  years,  until  language  be  dumb, 

Until  memory  fade,  until  heart-throbs  be  stilled. 

With  your  friendship  a  void  in  my  life  you  have  filled,    . 

And  my  own  lies  for  you  to  retain  at  your  will; 

While  its  life  naught  can  threaten,  its  heart  naught  can  chill. 

There  is  nothing  Mark  Landis  can  do  to  life's  end, 

That  aught  else  can  of  Helen  Graves  make  than  his  friend. ' ' 

XVIII. 

O,  Mark,  how  could  you  fail  to  discern  in  tnese  tones, 
Each  one  vibrating  only  with  feelings  love  owns, 
The  last  struggle  her  heart  for  assertion  was  making — 
Its  last  earnest  effort  put  forth  at  awaking 


98  HELEN. 

Love's  sharp  inquisition  and  search  on  your  part — 

Her  despairing  attempt  to  creep  into  your  heart  ? 

At  that  moment  supreme,  had  you  stood  at  death's  door, 

With  but  one  day  to  live  ere  the  struggle  be  o'er, 

And  in  challenging  love  then  demanded  of  her, 

For  the  faint  shred  of  life  that  were  yours  to  transfer, 

Her  great  heart,  with  its  volume  of  health,  youth,  and  bloom, 

It  had  gladly  and  proudly  been  yours  to  the  tomb. 

XIX. 

.     .     .     Farmer  Graves' s  great  barn  is  now  looming  in  sight, 
And  his  poplars  and  maples;  while  grandly  the  light 
From  the  roomy  and  old-fashioned  fireplaces  glows 
Through  each  window  unscreened,  and  its  ruddy  light  throws 
On  the  beautiful  bays,  with  their  precious  life-load, 
Coming  on  a  proud  trot,  turning  in  from  the  road,    • 
And  then  up  to  the  farm-house. 

xx. 

What  contrast  is  there, 

In  the  scene  now  confronting  this  dream-wakened  pair, 
With  the  deep  heart-experiences  of  the  drive! 
No  life  here  but  is  active, — each  creature  alive 
And  alert.     From  the  regions  of  pure  sentiment 
To  the  strata  of  fact,  quick  has  been  the  descent! 

XXI. 

O,  the  life  of  a  farm  at  day's  close!     Then  and  there 
One  will  find  of  this  world  an  epitome  fair. 
See  the  hard-working  beasts,  that  come  up  for  their  pay, 
And  receive  it  in  silence,  eat,  drink,  and  away, 
Like  good,  orderly  workmen.     The  idle  ones  howl, 
And,  like  all  idlers  human,  grunt,  grumble  and  growl, 
More  by  far  than  those  who,  in  pain,  struggle,  and  sweat, 
Honest,  fairly-earned  titles  to  maintenance  get. 


FRIENDSHIP.  99 

And  the  dainty,  select  ones,  the  favored  of  pride, 
These  demand  closer  care  than  all  others  beside; 
For  they,  favorite-like,  must  be  petted,  caressed, 
And  of  all  things  provided  they  must  have  the  best. 
And  the  bullies  and  tyrants  come  in  for  their  shares, 
Which  they  take  with  the  rest,  and  then  plunder  in  pairs, 
Coward-like,  and  combine  to  grab,  ravage,  and  rob, 
And  resort  to  that  civilized  trick,  the  swell-mob, 
The  unwary  to  plunder,  and  leave  them  to  starve, 
While  their  own  greedy,  gluttonous  bellies  they  serve. 

Bless  me!     This  is  so  like  the  vast  human  charade, 
As  we  see  it  all  round  us  in  varied  guise  played, 
That  it  comes  of  earth's  problems  to  be  not  the  least, 
Whether  beast  after  man  takes,  or  man  after  beast. 

XXII. 

When  Mark  Landis,  while  round  him  the  white  moonbeams 

played, 

To  the  ground  Helen  lightly  had  lifted,  he  said, 
As  her  hand  he  released: 

"  Well,  good  night,  and  good  bye!  " 

XXIII. 

"  Why  good-bye  ?"   Helen  asked,  with  quick  glance  of  the 

eye, 

While  a  shudder  her  heart,  wrought  to  tension,  ran  through: 
"  On  a  journey,  then,  are  you  intending  to  go  ?  " 

XXIV. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  returned.  "This  is  but  my  last  greeting 
To  a  dream  I  have  had,  and  have  learned  to  be  fleeting. 
I  found  it  so  fair,  and  so  bright  was  its  spell, 
That  I  pay  it  its  due  of  a  passing  farewell, 
As  its  hues  iridescent  now  fade  from  my  sight, 
And  its  joys  disappear  in  oblivion's  night." 


100  HELEN. 

XXV. 

"  Helen  Graves  but  good  night  has  to  say,"  she  replied, 
As  he  sprang  to  his  seat,  while  straight  supperwards  hied, 
With  the  same  speed  at  which  o'er  the  prairie  they  sped, 
The  gay,  bright  Charley  Boy,  and  spruce  Gentleman  Ned. 

XXVI. 

.     .     .     On  the  steps  of  her  home  still  poor  Helen  remained, 

With  her  eyes  after  horses  and  driver  long  strained; 

And  when  trace  there  was  none  of  Mark's  form  to  be  seen, 

She  gazed  up  at  the  heavens,  whose  beauty  serene 

Now  was  heightened;  and  still  as  a  statue  she  stood, 

While  the  moonlight  in  silver  waves  over  her  flowed, 

As,  exiled  on  a  lone,  desert  isle,  one  might  stand, 

And  watch  sail  the  last  ship  for  his  loved  native  land. 

.     .     .     She  yet  gazed  at  the  stars.     "Tell,  O,  tell  me,"  she 

sighed; 

' '  May  not  love  without  end  in  your  clear  depths  abide  ? 
For  enduring  abiding-place  none  hath  it  here!  " 
And  upon  her  white  hand  there  fell  softly  a  tear. 

XXVII. 

She  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  sought  the  relief 
That  no  woman  fails  ever  to  seek. 

But  a  grief 

Such  as  this  which  now  shrouded  the  fair  Helen  Graves, 
Departs  not  with  much  weeping;  for  after  the  waves 
Had  rolled  surgingly  over  her  heart  in  their  might, 
Came  a  calm  with  more  dread  than  the  storm  in  its  height. 


CANTO  NINTH. 


DEVOTION. 


I. 

Richard  Rolfe,  gentle  reader:    who  enters  as  one 

Of  my  characters  truest.     And,  ere  I  go  on 

With  my  tale,  let  me  linger  awhile  o'er  this  man, 

Who  in  no  wise  on  any  original  plan 

Had  been  formed,  as  I  frankly  admit   at  the  start. 

He  was  no  unique  soul,  living  grandly  apart 

From  the  crowd,  but  one  such  as  you're  likely  to  meet 

Fifty  times  in  the  day,  along  any  thronged  street 

Where  our  countrymen  mingle.     I  purpose  in  him 

But  a  type  of  American  nature  to  limn, 

Which,  though  common  as  love,  is,  like  love,  genuine, 

And  of  which  any  counterfeit  rarely  is  seen. 

ii. 

Richard  Rolfe  was  a  man  of  to-day.     Of  the  things 
That  to  memory's  treasury  yesterday  brings 
He  cared  little,  and  less  for  the  glamour  hope  throws 
O'er  things  which  in  the  lap  of  to-morrow  repose. 
The  great  past  was  to  him  something  distant  and  dead, 
Over  which  he  passed  ever  with  reverent  tread, 
But  whose  spirit  with  his  no  communion  could  hold, 
Savor  bearing  too  strong  of  mortality's  mold. 
Of  the  lessons  that  history's  record  unfolds, 
Or  the  mirror  of  promise  that  prophecy  holds, 


102  HELEN. 

His  soul  being  oblivious,  chose  to  adhere 

To  its  plenary  faith  in  the  now,  and  the  here. 

With  the  thoughts  of  this  flush  life  his  active  mind  teemed; 

And,  in  waking  or  sleeping,  he  never  had  dreamed 

Of  a  world  any  better  than  this  where  he  lived, 

Loved,  hoped,  labored,  or  strove,  and  in  which  he  believed, 

With  its  every  error,  injustice,  and  wrong, 

With  a  faith  as  unquestioning,  fervent,  and  strong, 

As  that  placed  by  a  tender  young  child  in  its  mother. 

in. 
— Of  course,  this  refers  but  to  time. 

In  another, 

And  happier  world,  far  beyond  the  dark  gulf 
Which  he  knew  that  some  day  he  must  cross,  Richard  Rolfe 
Did  most  surely  believe,  as  his  fathers  had  done — 
With  such  modifications  of  faith,  be  it  known, 
As  the  spirit  of  this  age  had  wrought;  for  to  him 
'Twas  decidedly  proper  to  vary  and  trim 
His  theology,  as  ballad-singers  their  rhymes, 
To  comply  with  the  changing  demands  of  the  times: 
That  to  him  was  the  truth,  with  regard  to  eternity, 
Which  had  most  respectable  modern  paternity. 

IV. 

Yet  a  nature  was  Rolfe' s  of  so  sound  mental  health, 
Of  such  heart- freshness,  and  so  much  physical  wealth, 
That  this  superabundance  of  life,  strength,  and  nerve, 
And  his  vast  fund  of  energy  held  in  reserve, 
Gave  him  influence,  power,  and  control  among  men, 
Such  as  few  at  his  age  can  command;  for  he  then 
Had  not  thirty  years  reached;  and  'twas  worthy  of  note, 
That  e'en  thus  long  he'd^been  011  life's  high  tide  afloat, 


DEVOTION.  103 

And  unpromised  as  well  as  unwedded  was  still; 
For  of  him  one  would  say,  he  could  conquer  at  will 
Any  heart  to  lay  siege  to  which  he  might  desire. 
He  had  all  of  the  traits  woman's  love  that  inspire: 
He  had  courage,  assurance,  persistence,  and  force; 
He  had  strong  self-assertion;  a  plethoric  purse; 
A  commanding,  tall  person;  an  eye  passion-fired; 
And  most  soft,  winning  ways,  when  occasion  required. 

v. 

Richard  Rolfe  had  long  known  Helen  Graves.     From  a  child 
He  had  watched  her,  as,  heedless,  and  curbless,  and  wild, 
She  had  roamed  o'er  the  prairies  in  May  or  in  June, 
Picking  strawberries  where  they  were  lavishly  strewn 
By  God's  own  kindly  hand  in  dim  cycles  of  time, 
And  by  countless  suns  sweetened  for  man  in  his  prime; 
Or  through  groves  in  mid- August,  where  blackberries  grew 
Thickly,  darkly,  as  plagues  that  doomed  Egypt  once  knew; 
Or  the  round,  toothsome  hazelnut  tempted  her  on, 
Until  lost  in  the  thickets  of  purple  and  brown. 
He  had  missed  her  when  absent  at  school,  and  had  thought 
That  an  object,  some  day,  she  would  be  to  be  sought; 
But,  with  that  easy  confidence  in  his  own  power 
With  which  fate  the  courageous  doth  ever  endower, 
Waited  till  she  should  ripen  to  woman's  estate, 
When  he  deemed  it  quite  likely  he  might  link  her  fate 
With  his  own. 

VI. 

.     .     .     On  the  night  when  Mark  L,andis  returned 
From  the  long  drive  with  Helen,  and  with  him,  inurned, 
Brought  the  ashes  of  trust  that  with  reverent  care 
He  had  after  the  sacrifice  gathered,  to  bear 


104  HELEN. 

Through  the  seasons  and  years,  Farmer  Graves  at  his  gate 
Stood,  discussing  with  Rolfe  themes  of  soil  and  of  state, 
As  the  spanking  bays  pranced  at  brisk  pace  proudly  in, 
And  their  master  the  treasure  laid  down,  which  to  win 
He,  Dick  Rolfe,  had  deemed  but  a  light  task. 

'  'A  smart  span 

I,andis  drives!  "     In  this  wise  the  old  man's  comments  ran, 
As  the  bays  trotted  homeward.      '  'As  sure  as  my  name 
Is  John  Graves,  since  that  thar  right  clean-brained  Yankee 

came 

To  these  parts,  I  have  never  seen  him  hold  the  reins 
On  a  roadster  that  hadn't  good  blood  in  its  veins." 

VII. 

There's  a  cheapness  of  feeling  comparison  brings, 

Which  humiliates  even  the  spirit  of  kings. 

Proud  Dick  Rolfe  felt  shrink  up  the  lean  roan  he  bestrode 

To  still  lanker  proportions,  as  homeward  he  rode, 

At  a  whip-enforced  gait.     But  the  beast,  if  possessed 

Of  the  gift  given  Balaam's,  a  voice  to  protest, 

Might  have  told  him  how  grossly  unworthy  it  was 

To  torment  a  poor  brute  in  green  jealousy's  cause. 

,     .     .     The  truth  was  that  Dick  had  on  a  sudden  awaked 

To  a  keen  apprehension  of  this  striking  fact: 

That  a  beauty  like  sweet  Helen  Graves  could  not  range 

Long  at  random  in  this  Western  world's  pasture-grange, 

Without  danger  of  being  caught  up  and  "coralled  "; 

And,  aroused  thus,  his  haughty,  impatient  breast  swelled 

With  inflamed  indignation  that  e'er  living  wight 

Of  a  herdsman  should  venture  to  challenge  his  right 

To  the  pride  of  these  grazing-lands ;      while,  in  his  wrath, 

Had  he  met  the  intruder  that  night  in  his  path, 

Elsewise  might  have  been  told  my  tale. 


DEVOTION*.  105 

VIII. 

As  he  had  cast 

A  look  searching  at  Helen,  when  by  him  she  passed 
On  that  last  night  for  her  by  Mark  Landis's  side, 
She,  with  features  by  thought-trials  fresh  purified, 
And  full  bathed  in  the  moonlight,  to  him  seemed  more  fair 
Than  in  all  seasons  since  they  had  breathed  the  same  air. 
Thus,  as  grew  on  his  vision  this  late-discerned  charm, 
New  emotions  gained  power  his  strong  nature  to  warm, 
And  he  stood  there,  stirred  deeply. 

IX. 

And  then  he  began 

To  feel  strange  and  soft  pulsings  of  heart,  while  there  ran 
Through  his  being  a  stream  of  new  joy,   and  new  life; 
And  he  knew  that  he  loved. 

There  sprang  now  a  fresh  strife 

In  his  breast — love,  hard  struggling  for  instant  control, 
Crying,  with  first  love's  fierce  cry:       "Give  all,  heart  and 

soul; 
Give  me  all,  or  give  none!  " 

x. 

Richard  Rolfe  was  no  man 
I/)ng  to  hesitate  after  once  forming  a  plan ; 
But  prompt  action  so  quickly  succeeded  resolve, 
That  small  time  had  he  thoughts  in  his  mind  to  revolve. 
Therefore,  when  he  reached  home,  he  had  fixedly  planned 
To  win  fair  Helen  Graves  as  his  bride,  out  of  hand. 

XI. 

.     .     .     Thus  the  stars  on  that  night  o'er  the  prairies  looked 

down 
On  three  hearts  with  love's  strong  tidal  wave  overflown; 


106  HELEN. 

And  the  stars  then,  as  ever,  their  secrets  close  kept, 

And  their  courses  still  held,  whether  love  laughed  or  wept, 

Or  love  suffered  or  joyed,  or  love  triumphed  or  fell. 

But  one  tale,  O  cold  worlds,  have  ye  ever  to  tell! 

Ye  can  tell  that  love  times,  days,  and  seasons  hath  not ; 

Ye  can  tell  that  to  bleed  and  be  bruised  is  its  lot; 

Ye  can  tell  that  forever  love's  tide  ebbs  and  flows; 

Ye  can  tell  that  young  ever,  old  never,  love  grows. 

This  enduring  tale  love  in  your  depths  aye  can  read; 

But  not  that  which  to  know  it  e'er  thinketh  to  need: 

It  can  never  read  there  what  its  travail  shall  bear, 

It  can  never  read  there  what  its  spirit  shall  share; 

It  can  never  read  there  of  one  pulse  of  a  heart 

That  it  treasures  in  silence  and  worships  apart; 

It  can  never  from  thence  one  assured  omen  wring 

Of  the  bloom  or  the  blight  which  the  morrow  shall  bring. 

XII. 

Now  prepare,  Helen  Graves,  for  a  siege  to  your  heart! 

He  who  lays  it,  though  meeting  repulse  at  the  start, 

Will  bring  all  of  love's  forces  to  bear  on  your  breast, 

And  its  dread  engines  will  into  service  be  pressed. 

O,  beware,  Helen  Graves!     Your  heart's  fortress  make  strong: 

For  the  siege  will  be  weary,  the  siege  will  be  long! 

Reinforce  all  your  bastions,  make  sure  each  redoubt, 

If  you  hope  against  siege  like  this  still  to  hold  out  ! 

XIII. 

"  Hello,  Dick  !  "  Farmer  Graves  in  his  frank  way  exclaimed, 
Not  a  great  many  days  after  Richard  had  framed 
His  strong  purpose  beneath  aroused  passion's  fierce  gleam, 
As  the  latter  drove  up  with  a  fine  chestnut  team, 


DEVOTION.  10? 

And  invited  the  former  to  sit  by  his  side, 

While  together  his  new  trotters'  paces  they  tried. 

"I'm  right  glad,   neighbor  Rolfe,    that  you've   put   on«  the 

road 

Creatures  such  as  these  beauties.     It  does  my  heart  good 
To  ride  after  them  ! 

' '  Thanks  !     I  don't  mind  if  I  do 

Try  the  lines.     Ah  !     These  nags  are  a  credit  to  you; 
And  I  reckon  they'll  give  to  young  L,andis's  bays 
A  close  rub.     We  must  try  the  pa'r  one  of  these  days. 
It's  some  time  since  I've  seen  him.     Some  persons  here  say 
He's  consumptive,  with  health  mighty  nigh  giving  way, 
From  his  over-exertion." 

xiv. 

"  I  hope,  sir,  his  case 

Is  by  no  means  as  bad  as  reported.     His  place 
Could  be  in  our  community  poorly  supplied," 
Answered  Rolfe,  in  whose  breast  all  resentment  had  died 
Toward  L,andis  of  late;  for  there  had,  through  the  mouth 
Of  Dame  Rumor,   came  word    which   first   made   Dick    less 

wroth 

With  his  neighbor,  and  then  a  warm  friend  of  him  made. 
The  word  went,  that  Mark,  learning  his  rival  had  laid 
Claim  to  Helen's  affection,  concluded  to  yield, 
Ivike  a  sensible  fellow,  to  Richard  the  field, 
More  especially  as  Helen's  heart  was  inclined 
To  Dick,  having  thereon  plainly  spoken  her  mind. 
And  the  fact  that  Rolfe  now  was  attentive  to  her, 
And  that  she  seemed  to  give  to  her  new  worshiper 
All  her  favors,  while  L,andis  had  totally  ceased 
In  his  visits,  the  credit  still  greatly  increased 


108  HELEN. 

Of  the  story  ;  and — would  you  believe  it? — it  stood 
Soon  as  good  history  in  the  whole  neighborhood. 
But  I  vouch  for  the  fact  that,  within  my  brief  day, 
I've  myself,  in  this  very  identical  way, 
Seen  made  histories  vast,  which  the  world  has  believed, 
And  with  questionless  faith  all  their  data  received. 

xv. 

And  here  taketh  my  muse  a  dttour  from  the  thread 

Of  the  tale,  for  the  moment  a  by-path  to  tread, 

As  the  sons  of  men  ever  are  turning  aside 

From  life-themes  to  contemplate  things  cast  by  the  tide 

On  the  shore  of  the  River  of  Time,  as  it  runs 

Through  the  valleys  of  earth  and  through  courses  of  suns. 

.   .  .  Who  of  woman  born  breathes  that  is  able  the  line 

With  distinctness  and  adequacy  to  define 

Between  flexile  tradition  and  tense  history, 

Through  humanity's  maze  and  fate's  dim  mystery? 

Task  Promethean  !     He  who  essays  it  may  well 

Bid  adieu  to  the  hope  in  peace  mental  to  dwell. 

Fellow-traveler  through  this  vale  tearful,  I  trow 

That  both  you  and  I  groping  in  twilight  will  go, 

While  the  fancy  delusive  embracing  that  we 

Shall  truth  clarified  e'er  in  earth's  chronicles  see. 

We  are  born  in  a  shade  ;  shadows  ever  attend 

Our  steps  mundane ;  the  mists  never  fail  to  descend 

Upon  us  from  the  cradle  e'en  on  to  the  tomb ; 

And  the  haze  of  futurity  deepens  death's  gloom : 

But  no  mists  round  life's  path  more  persistently  crowd, 

Than  those  which  the  page  storied  incessantly  shroud. 

The  exact  truth  of  history  ever  to  gain, 

And  to  separate  it  from  tradition,  in  vain 


DEVOTION.  109 

Need  be  looked  for  in  this  sphere,  while  human 
Man  continues  to  be,  and  especially  woman. 

XVI. 

There's  a  rule  the  world  over  observed  by  mankind 
On  the  subject  in  hand,  which  may  thus  be  outlined: 
The  traditions  that  buttress  my  faith,  or  my  cause, 
Pass  as  history  credent  with  my  side,  while  those 
Which  sustain  faith  or  cause  propagated  by  you, 
Can  for  me  web  nor  woof  make  of  history  true. 
This  rule  governs  the  problem  historic ;  and,  tried 
Vice  versa,  props  equally  your  chosen  side. 
We  all  work  by  it — poets,  priests,  worldlings,  and  sages, 
Whether  on  topics  current,  or  those  of  the  ages. 
'Tis  the  way  of  the  world,  brother;  so  hath  it  been 
Since  ran  rippling  the  streams  and  the  grasses  grew  green ; 
And  'twill  so  be  while  gently  at  eve  Hesper  glows, 
Or  sweet  Luna  o'er  earth  silver  radiance  throws. 
.   .   .  Would  you  change  it  ?     For  things  planned  anew  do  you 

yearn  ? 

Philanthropic  day-dreamer !     As  well  seek  to  turn 
The  blood's  currents  out  of  their  arterial  course 
To  and  from  life's  unceasingly  pulsating  source, 
Or  to  soften  and  smoothe  the  gnarled  growth  of  the  oak, 
Make  the  reed  strong  to  bear  the  wild  hurricane's  stroke, 
Change  in  nature  the  lily  by  clasping  airs  swayed, 
Or  the  daisy  that  blushes  demure  in  the  shade. 


XVII. 

With  his  brave,  blooded  chestnuts  the  few  final  days 
Of  the  fall  Rolfe  with  Helen  improved.     And  the  haze 


110  HELEN. 

Which  still  lingered,  as  if  tender  thoughts  to  retain 
That  in  autumn  days  dreamy,  in  memory's  train, 
Cluster  round  gentle  hearts,  she  held  dear  as  the  glow 
Of  the  sunset  to  him  who  shall  nevermore  know 
The  glad  warmth  of  another  sun's  light. 

Though  she  drove, 

Rode,  or  walked  with  him  whither  he  asked  her,  in  grove, 
Or  on  prairie,  o'er  meadow,  by  pond,  or  by  stream, 
While  her  mind  was  awake,  yet  her  heart  lived  a  dream. 
She  was  charming  in  converse ;  ranged  ever  thought-free; 
And  especially  comforting  was  it  that  he, 
Whom  she  knew  to  be  anchored  in  spirit  inside 
The  safe  harbor  of  life's  living  present,  ne'er  tried 
To  invade  the  to  her  hallowed  precincts  that  lay, 
Ah,  behind  her  fore'er,  and  so  far  now  away  ! 
There  was  health  for  her  spirit  in  topics  he  chose ; 
And,  while  naught  of  her  heart  was  she  forced  to  disclose, 
In  reality's  fields  she  drew  him,  'neath  her  spell, 
Along  paths  where  the  sunshine  in  plethora  fell. 
.  .  .   But  at  times — ah,  antithesis  marvelous,  found 
In  the  fairest  of  women  within  the  bright  bound 
Of  green  earth  ! — she  herself,  moved  by  some  impulse  strange, 
Drew  him  off  from  the  wonted,  habitual  range 
Of  such  earnest  themes  as,  with  no  lack  of  fair  phrase 
He  embellished,  to  those  of  an  alien  phase. 
Was  this  only  to  show  what  o'er  him  was  the  power 
She  possessed  ?     Be  that  still  as  it  might,  hour  by  hour 
Grew  her  vantage.     She  led  him  to  talk  of  all  things 
In  the  scope  of  the  known  ;  yea,  of  mystical  springs 
Of  the  unknown  her  captive  enticed  to  converse, 
Still  in  all  ever  holding  the  helm  of  discourse. 


DEVOTION.  Ill 

XVIII. 

She  was  fain  to  beguile  his  strong  spirit  away 
From  the  fresh  terra firma  of  Now,  and  To-Day, 
To  the  fringed  shores  of  Sometime,  and  Yesterday's  isles, 
And  the  tropics  where  slumber  To-morrow's  bright  smiles; 
And  he  listened  enchanted,  and,  listening,  loved, 
With  a  love  that  all  heights  and  all  depths  in  him  moved. 

XIX. 

Yet,  whene'er,  with  heart-eloquence  glowing,  he  sought 
To  direct  the  discourse  into  channels  of  thought 
Which  flowed  into  the  great  stream  of  love,  by  finesse 
She  diverted  its  course  to  where  danger  was  less: 
And  thus  kept  herself  on  the  assured  safety  side; 
While,  becharmed,  and  thus  still  floating  on  with  the  tide, 
This  live  non-dreamer,  now  dreaming  only,  swept  on, 
And  was  lost  to  all  else  save  her  look,  touch,  and  tone. 

xx. 

Ah,  well,  Helen  !     Just  now  you  are  having  your  way. 
But  this  sleeper  will  wake  from  his  slumbers  some  day; 
And  that  day  you  will  not  find  relief  in  finesse; 
But  the  issue  you  then  will  have  boldly  to  face. 
And,  pray,  what  will  you  do,  Helen  Graves,  in  that  day? 
Will  you  float  with  the  tide  idly  ebbing  away, 
•Or.  on  moveless  rock  standing,  defy  it:* 

Not  long 

Can,  you,  Delilah,  dally  with  Samson  the  strong  ! 
For  your  temple's  stout  pillars  he'll  shatter  at  length, 
When  again  he  shall  rise,  and  shall  feel  his  old  strength. 

XXI. 

In  your  heart  you  have  builded  a  mosque,  and  enshrined 
There  the  living-dead  love  of  Mark  Landis,  refined, 


112  HELEN. 

Sublimated,  removed  from  all  contact  with  earth, 
Like  the  Mary  of  Grace,  held  as  spotless  of  birth. 
You  imagine  that  you  can  preserve,  in  that  shrine, 
The  once  sacrificed  love,  now  transfigured,  divine, 
And  in  secret  to  it  silent  homage  pa}-,  while 
You  encourage  a  grosser  love  springing,  and  smile, 
And  thus  say  to  yourself:      '  '  Such  a  love  must  but  die, 
While  immortal  is  mine." 

XXII. 

,          O,  take  heed  how  you  ply 
This  most  dangerous  logic!     For  I  do  make  bold 
To  declare  that  the  love  of  this  man  taketh  hold 
On  the  things  and  the  thoughts  that  are  noblest.     'Tis  true, 
It  is  not,  and  it  never  can  be,  unto  you, 
An  affection  like  that  of  Mark  L,andis;  for  rare 
As  appearance  of  spirits  from  realms  of  the  air 
Is  the  advent  on  earth  of  so  spotless  a  love 
As  that  one,  seeming  drawn  from  the  great  Heart  above. 
Yet  within  Richard  Rolfe's  manly  breast  there  glows  now 
An  affection  a  king  might  be  proud  to  avow, 
Or  a  queen  might  thirst  after.     L,augh  not  at  this  love, 
Helen  Graves,  lest  such  laughter  a  Nemesis  prove  ! 


XXIII. 

And  what  thoughts  filled  the  brain  of  Mark  Landis  the  while  ? 
Murmured  he: 

"  'Twere  like  seeking  the  source  of  the  Nile, 
To  attempt  the  heart-bent  of  a  woman  to  trace. 
One  will  find,  when  he  thinks  he  looks  love  in  the  face, 
'Tis  the  face  of  a  sphinx     .     .     .     Ah,  how  oft,  in  the  days 
That  are  dead,  have  I  sat  'neath  the  lustreful  gaze 


DEVOTION.  113 

Of  those  dark  mirror-eyes,  and  believed  that  through  mine 
The  clear  soul  that  looked  through  them  had  made  me  the  sign 
Of  the  rinding  of  home  and  of  rest  in  my  heart! 
And  this  all  was  but  seeming — this  all  was  but  art! 

XXIV. 

"And  where  then  shall  one  seek  in  this  wide  world  for  truth? 
Shall  one  seek  it  in  age,  when  'tis  not  found  in  youth  ? 
Shall  one  seek  it  in  man,  when  'tis  not  found  in  woman  ? 
Or  seek  it  in  brute  breasts,  when  scarce   found  in  human  ? 
Come  hither,  my  great  bays,  my  pets,  and  my  friends! 
I  will  trust  you,  and  love  you,  till  life's  story  ends, 
As  end  why  should  it  not  in  the  days  that  are  near  ? 
Your  eyes  gaze  into  mine,  and  no  falsehood  I  fear. 
While  they  rest  on  my  face,  I  can  fancy  they  see 
An  unselfish  devotion  clear-mirrored  in  me; 
And  I'm  proud  of  your  flattery,  beauties  in  bay, 
And  in  genuine  coin  your  strong  faith  will  repay." 

XXV. 

Thus  the  heart  still  rebelled  against  reason's  behest, 
And  gave  way  to  all  shapes  of  abnormal  unrest. 
Vainly  all  self-command  Mark  had  called  to  his  aid; 
"  'Tis  unmanly!  "  in  vain  had  his  better  sense  said. 

XXVI. 

My  good  reader,  philosophize  much  as  we  may, 

We'll  find  that,  in  the  realm  where  the  feelings  hold  sway, 

A  cry  selfish  for  heart-compensation  ascends, 

E'en  where  sacrifice  noble  subserves  lofty  ends. 

To  that  cry  recognition  appeasement  can  bring — 

Recognition,  though  faint,  of  the  heart's  offering. 

'Tis  the  one  touch  of  self  which  the  martyr  makes  kin 

With  the  wretch  who  sells  soul  for  the  wages  of  sin. 


114 


HELEN. 


This  touch  failing,  how  strangely,  in  clearest  of  minds, 
Truth  its  crystal  intent  misinterpreted  finds! 
Recognition  may  work  reconcilement  where  loss 
Leaves  of  life's  wine  but  lees,  of  its  gold  but  the  dross, 
Though  in  time's  farthest  cycles  it  may  never  more 
Aught  repair,  or  renew,  or  recall,  or  restore. 

XXVII. 

Had  this  one  simple  factor  to  Mark  been  supplied, 
With  content  had  he  borne,  suffered,  struggled,  or  died. 
But  it  came  not,  and  he,  with  injustice  of  thought, 
Still   his   way   blindly   groped   through    the   myths    he    had 

wrought. 

Let  us  judge  him  in  charity,  mindful  that  One 
Whom  no  myths  mystified  was  once  shut  from  the  sun. 


CANTO  TENTH. 


PASSION. 


I. 

Autumn  days  were  no  more.     On  bleak  winds  they  had  flown, 
With  the  joys  that  once  bosoms  now  aching  had  known. 
But  the  stout  Richard  Rolfe  with  the  autumn  went  not, 
And  his  way  toward  Helen's  heart  bravely  still  fought. 
Then  the  winter  came  on,  with  its  sad,  moaning  blasts, 
And  its  whispers  of  death,  and  its  tyrannous  frosts, 
Holding  nature's  great  heart  in  its  dread  icy  chain, 
And  thus  holding  iced  hearts  of  both  women  and  men. 
But  frosts  chilled  not  the  heart  that  in  Richard  Rolfe' s  breast 
Glowed  with  love's  ever-heightening  flames  of  unrest, 
'Neath  the  calm,  watchful  gaze  of  the  cold,  soulless  stars, 
While  rebelliously  ever  it  beat  'gainst  its  bars, 
With  increasingly  louder  throbs,  hasting  the  day 
When  love  must  have  solution,  the  heart  have  its  sway. 

n. 
That  day  came. 

Of  her  bareness  ashamed,  earth,  one  morn, 
Had  determined  her  bosom  to  clothe  and  adorn 
With  a  grand  robe  of  ermine.     It  grew  with  the  day; 
And  the  great  flakes  came  down,  and  successively  lay 
On  her  lean,  shriveled  breast,  and  thus  rounded  it  o'er, 
Till  our  dear,  common  mother  was  fair  as  of  yore. 


110  HELEN. 

III. 

'Twas  the  first  snow  of  winter!     Infectious,  the  joy 

Spread  to  woman  and  girl,  and  to  man  and  to  boy; 

And  the  beasts  even  caught  the  exhilarant  flow 

Of  fresh  spirit  that  set  all  existence  aglow. 

Then,  hurrah!     Cutters,  sleighs,  sleds,  crates,  jumpers,  and 

pungs 

Into  quick  requisition  were  brought;  then  wagged  tongues, 
And  strove  voices;  bells  jingled;  and  laughter  rang  out; 
And  now  he  was  best  fellow  who  loudest  could  shout, 
Or  who  most  noise  could  make,  in  the  roar  and  the  din 
That  this  merry  and  jolly  snow-storm  ushered  in. 

IV. 

Out,  now,  come  the  renowned  grays  of  old  Farmer  Graves, 
And  the  sleigh  that  for  great  state  occasions  he  saves; 
And  out,  too,  come  Mark  L,andis's  steeds,  with  steps  light, 
With  steps  sure,  with  steps  swift,  o'er  earth's  carpet  of  white. 
But  no  burden  of  mingled  emotions  the  bays 
Draw  as  erstwhile  accustomed  when  long  were  the  days. 
And  see!     Now,  with  a  flourish,   Rolfe's  chestnuts  whirl 

through 

Fanner  Graves' s  wide  gate,  'mid  the  whoop  and  halloo 
Of  the  youngsters,  and  praise,  all  unstintedly  paid, 
Of  the  farm-hands,  and  worship  of  each  dairy-maid. 
Now,  coine  forth,  Helen  Graves!     For  the  little  world  here 
Stands  expectant  to  see  Dick  Rolfe's  sweetheart  appear. 
In  the  whole  country  round  thus  by  man  and  by  maid 
You  are  labeled  by  common  consent;  and  'tis  said 
A  brave  pair  you  will  make;  and  no  tone  of  dissent 
From  your  lips  has  been  heard  to  this  voiced  sentiment.' 

.     She  is  here!     She  is  fresh  as  the  new-fallen  snow; 
And  as  gaily  and  heartily  smiles  she,  as  though 


PASSION.  11? 

Never  cloud  had  she  known. 

v. 

Dick  his  passenger  fair 

In  the  sleigh  seats;  a  word  to  the  team,  and  the  air 
They  are  pawing. 

VI. 

The  hour  is  the  closing  of  day; 
And,  as  swiftly  the  chestnuts  in  pride  speed  away, 
Slowly  rises  the  moon  in  her  glory,  in  flood 

Of  white  light  bathing  nature. 

In  tune  and  in  mood 

To  enjoy  to  the  uttermost  this  so  enlivening  scene, 
Helen  Graves,  animated  with  zest  sharp  and  keen, 
As  they  glide  through  the  snow,  the  embodiment  seems 
Of  true,  sentient  delight.     Her  discourse  with  life  teems; 
For  'tis  not  the  past,  cold,  cheerless,  musty,  and  dead, 
Nor  the  future,  with  films  of  day-dreams  overspread, 
Mainly  burdens  her  converse  just  now:  'tis  the  present, 
Its  sharp,  breathing  facts,  and  its  thought  effervescent, 
Its  issues  of  pleasure  and  pain,  of  content  and  unrest, 
And  of  right  and  wrong — life-issues,  racking  the  breast 
Of  humanity,  turning  the  struggling  world 
On  their  pivots,  and  blazoning  banners  unfurled 
By  armed  hosts. 

VII. 

She  is  careful,  however,  to  stray 
Never  too  far  beyond  the  frontier  of  to-day, 
On  debatable  ground,  whereon  ultimate  sources  are  traced 
Of  the  wrongs  to  be  righted  or  evils  effaced; 
For,  although  Richard  Rolfe  was  e'er  ready  to  fight, 
With  a  stalwart,  stout,  unflinching  arm,  for  the  right, 
As  to  him  handed  down,  and  by  him  understood, 
Yet  he  deemed  life  too  brief  for  his  spirit  to  brood 


118  HELEN. 

O'er  the  chaos  of  causes  and  principles,  trying 

To  solve  problems  the  right  and  the  wrong  underlying, 

Or  to  trace  up  too  closely  the  process  how  he 

In  the  right  and  his  foe  in  the  wrong  came  to  be. 

VIII. 

He  had  listened  intently  while  she  had  discoursed, 
And  had  less  of  his  own  bright  remarks  interspersed 
Than  his  wont  was  to  do;  for  'twas  truthfully  said 
That  Dick  Rolfe  had  a  dexterous  tongue  in  his  head, 
One  that  on  lubric  hinges  with  nimble  ease  wagged, 
And  in  speech  on  most  topics  afloat  rarely  lagged. 
Yet  the  skill  of  his  tongue  now  but  little  availed; 
For,  as  often  before,  he  had  signally  failed 
To  her  obdurate  heart  any  entrance  to  gain, 
And  a  transcript  of  records  there  kept  to  obtain. 

IX. 

The  gay  sleighride  thus  ends;  and,  a  victor  once  more, 
Now  exultant  sing,  Helen,  your  new  triumph  o'er. 
You  are  free;  you  are  mistress  of  self;  the  siege  laid 
Is  not  won;  your  heart-issue  you  still  can  evade! 

x. 

Bidding  Helen  good-night,  Rolfe  was  lifting  his  reins, 
When  from  old  Farmer  Graves  came  imperative  strains: 
"  What,  Dick!     Going?     I  can't  hear  a  moment  to  that! 
You  must  stay  here  to  supper,  sir!     That's  squar  and  flat! 
Hello!     Moses!  Job!  Washington!  Caesar!  Come  here! 
Sleighbells  jingling  as  bravely  as  these  can't  you  hear  ? 
Would  you  let  Master  Dick's  trotters  freeze  on  their  pins, 
While  by  Aunt  Dinah's  fireplace  you're  toasting  your  shins? 
Make  haste,  and  them  chestnuts  take  straight  to  the  barn! 
While,  Dick,  you  to  the  parlor  with  Helen  adjourn, 


PASSION.  119 

Whar  the  big  maple  logs  in  the  great  hearth  are  burning. 
We've  built  a  huge  fire  thar,  against  your  returning. 
And  besides,  Neighbor  Dick,  I  don't  reckon  you  know 
That  occasion  I  took  of  this  first  fall  of  snow 
To  bring  down  with  my  rifle  a  fat  buck  to-day, 
And  Aunt  Dinah  a  haunch  of  it  has  under  way." 

XI. 

There  was  still  better  reason  Dick  Rolfe  could  have  given, 
Why  more  strongly  he  had  with  the  mandate  not  striven; 
But  he  yielded  in  silence,  and  joined  Helen  where 
Flushed  she  stood,  with  a  halting,  irresolute  air, 
And  accompanied  her  to  the  fire-lighted  room, 
Which  her  presence  for  him  all-sufficed  to  illume. 

XII. 

.     .     .     With  thoughts  crowding,   absorbed,  erect  standing, 

he  gazed 
Mutely  into  the  hearth  where  the  roaring  logs  blazed. 

"Pray  be  seated,"  said  Helen;    a  strange,  restive 

feeling, 

A  sense  of  half-guiltiness  over  her  stealing; 
For  in  Richard's  demeanor  one  clearly  might  see 
There  were  signs  of  a  gathering  heart-mutiny. 

"Thank  you;   I  prefer  standing,"  he  said;    and  his 

eyes 

Looked  a  look  of  such  earnestness  only  as  lies 
In  firm  purpose,  of  heart-travail  born. 

XIII. 

Then  he  broke 

The  oppressive,  forced  silence,  and  burning  words  spoke — 
Words  which  longer  evasion  defied: 

' '  Helen  Graves, 
Long  enough  at  the  sport  of  the  winds  and  the  waves, 


120  HELEN. 

On  the  wild,  raging  ocean  of  love  I've  been  tossed, 
Passion-torn,  with  chart,  compass,  and  rudder  all  lost. 

What  need,  Helen,  to  tell  you  I  love  you  ?     You 

know  • 

What  my  love  is  for  you,  as  you  know  the  warm  glow 
Of  the  fire  in  this  hearth  that  now  reddens  your  cheek 
With  reflection  of  flame.     Shall  I  ask,  shall  I  seek, 
What  reflection  glows  in  your  own  heart  from  the  fire, 
The  o'ermastering,  sweeping,  soul-reaching  desire, 
Which  is  burning  my  breast  ?    .     .      .     I  have  sought,  I  have 

asked, 

I  have  questioned  of  you  with  my  acts;  I  have  tasked 
All  my  strength  of  expression,  to  draw  from  your  heart 
One  acknowledging  word  that  to  me  should  impart 
What  my  soul  longs  to  know,  what  my  whole  being  craves — 
What  you  shall  me  no  longer  deny,  Helen  Graves!  " 

XIV. 

Then  with  suddenness  burst  o'er  her  passion's  wild  storm; 
And,  with  arms  strong  and  agile,  he  seized  her  lithe  form, 
And  with  gripe  of  a  bear  drew  her  close  to  his  breast, 
While  his  lips  to  her  cheek  and  her  forehead  he  pressed. 
With  a  panther-like  fierceness. 

All  struggling  were  vain: 

As  well  struggle  the  reed  with  the  wild  hurricane; 
As  well  struggle-  the  toy-barque,  but  built  for  the  hour. 
With  the  roused  ocean's  savage  and  merciless  power. 

xv. 

Like  the  hare  in  the  coils  of  the  python  she  lay, 
Till  the  first  shock  of  startled  surprise  passed  away ; 
Then  came  slowly,  while  crimson  grew  brow,  neck  and  cheek, 
Words  the  tensive  occasion  impelled  her  to  speak: 


—    s 

5  £ 

S    a 


-  - 

-  u 
.s    a 


.=    .3 
O>    => 


PASSION.  123 

"I  appeal,  Richard  Rolfe,  and  I  know  not  in  vain, 
To  your  honor,  which  never  has  suffered  a  stain, 
To  release  me  at  once.     You've  assumed  to  be  true 
What  exists  not,  though  I  may  have  given  to  you 
Such  encouragement  as  I  should  never  have  done; 
For  I  cannot  return  the  affection  you've  shown." 

XVI. 

She  was  conquered  in  spirit,  and  humbled  in  mien; 
And  the  tones  of  her  voice  made  it  plain  to  be  seen, 
That  she  could  not  that  proud  indignation  command 
Which  gives  woman  the  firmness  and  strength  to  withstand 
The  advances  temerity  passioned  may  make, 
And  chains  forged  of  adverse  circumstances  to  break. 

XVII. 

"  I  release  you,"  he  said,  "  though  I  own  to  no  wrong; 
For,  although  you  have  found  my  embrace  to  be  strong, 
You  shall  find  that  the  unrelaxed  grasp  of  my  love 
Stronger  still,  and  by  far  more  resistless  will  prove." 

XVIII. 

The  warm  color  was  gone  in  her  face  that  had  glowed, 
And  a  paleness  succeeded  it. 

Silent  she  stood, 

Looking  full  in  the  face  the  bold  love-mutineer: 
Looking  full  in  his  face,  and  yet  not  resting  there; 
Looking  still  beyond,  into  an  eye  that  had  dwelt 
On  her  own  with  a  great  love,  which  having  once  felt, 
Could  her  heart  know  an  equal  one  ever  again  ? 
Thus,  amid  saddened  tumult,  of  breast  queried  brain. 
And  her  heart  sighed: 

"Ah  me!     If  Mark  Landis's  arms 
Had  thus  savagely  seized  me,  my  maiden  alarms 
Had  been  drowned  in  love's  unstifled  joy." 


124  HELEN. 

XIX.  f 

All  this  passed 
Through  the  doubt-perplexed,   love-puzzled  brain,  heart,   and 

breast 

Of  the  pride-humbled  Helen,  while  standing  before 
This  roused  rebel  with  whom  she  could  parley  no  more. 

.     The  long  pause  was  becoming  oppressive.     Again 
Richard  spoke,  but  this  time  in  a  more  subdued  strain: 

xx. 

' '  In  your  smiles  I  could  bask  all  the  years,  and  let  life, 
With  its  turbtrtent  tide,  and  its  feverous  strife, 
Pass  me  by,  and  flow  on,  leaving  me  on  the  shore, 
A  poor  idler,  bereft  of  demonstrative  power, 
And  bereft  of  the  manhood  that  stands  and  asserts, 
And  deals  hard  blows  and  strong,  and  takes  wounds  and  gives 

hurts. 

But  no  idler  must  I  ever  be,  and  my  place 
I  must  once  more  resume  in  life's  sharp,  eager  race. 
...     I  had  treasured  the  fancy  that  you  loved  me  well: 
I  have  been  self-deceived  through  the  fond,  witching  spell 
You  have  over  me  cast.     But  my  love  is  too  strong 
To  yield  now.     I  shall  still  love  you  patiently,  long; 
I  shall  love  you  with  all  a  man's  far-reaching  love; 
I  shall  love  you  with  love  which  exhaustless  will  prove." 

XXI. 

Richard  then  gently  took  both  her  hands  in  his  own, 

And  continued  to  speak  in  a  tenderer  tone: 

"  I  now  ask  you  no  questions;  await  no  replies; 

But  gaze  into  the  depths  of  your  kindness-filled  eyes, 

And  they  truthfully  tell  me,  I  think,  my  sweet  friend, 

That  in  still  loving  on  I  in  no  wise  offend. 


PASSION.  125 

Yet  I  could  but  love  on,  were  you  angered  or  kind; 

For  no  more  can  I  tear  you  from  heart  than  from  mind. ' ' 

XXII. 

She  was  grateful  to  him  that  he  questioned  her  not; 
That  he  had  not  more  closely  her  heart's  reasons  sought; 
That  he  had  in  the  tenderest  kindness  refrained 
From  unlocking  the  shrine  that  its  treasures  contained; 
Left  undrawn  still  the  innermost  veil,  unrevealed 
Still  the  ark  in  its  holy  of  holies  concealed. 

XXIII. 

She  at  last  broke  the  silence:  „ 

' '  Large  blame  may  be  mine ; 

But,  if  sinning,  I  scarcely  have  sinned  with  design. 
I  am  proud  of  the  honor  conferred  by  your  love; 
I  am  touched  by  its  loyalty.     All  else  above, 
I  discern,  in  this  ardent  affection  of  yours, 
Not  a  mere  fond  caprice,  but  such  love  as  endures 
Through  the  clouds  that  care  brings,  such  as  faithfully  wears 
Through  the  rubbings  and  wrenchings  that  come  with   the 

years. 

And  if  I  could  return  it,  and  worthy  I  were 
To  possess  and  enjoy  it,  my  soul  it  would  spur 
To  exertions  to  sweeten  and  bless  the  large  sphere 
Of  existence  ennobled  awaiting  you  here, 
And  your  triumphs  to  crown  with  a  love  that  should  come, 
To  all  laurels  to  add  a  contentment-filled  home. 
This  I  say,  to  show  you  that  'tis  no  idle  thing 
That  I  mean,  no  mere  flattery-tribute  I  bring, 
When  I  call  your  devotion  an  honor  to  me. 
Yet  the  object  of  these  your  attentions  to  be 


126  HELEN. 

Becomes  now  but  the  source  of  the  keenest  of  pain; 
For  I  dare  not  encourage  your  fond  hope  to  gain 
My  affections." 

XXIV. 

"  But,  mark!     It  depends  not  upon 

Aught  by  you  thought  or  felt,  aught  by  you  said  or  done," 
He  returned,  in  a  kindly  yet  so  firm  a  tone, 
That  she  felt  his  strength  gaining  once  more  on  her  own; 
"  Though  you  spurn  me,  yet  still  shall  I  love  you  the  same, 
And  your  efforts  to  quench  would  but  heighten  the  flame. 
Yet  let  me  once  for  all  for  your  guidance  now  say, 
That  in  what  has  transpired  naught  of  fault  can  I  lay 
At  your  door;  and  to  do  so  unmanly  would  be. 
For  a  gentlemen  who,  with  a  fair  field  and  free, 
Fails  of  winning  the  heart  of  the  woman  he  loves, 
And  then  blames  her,  himself  a  poor  gentleman  proves." 

XXV. 

.     .      .     Tided  over!     A  look  of  relief  took  the  place 
Of  the  one  so  perturbed  which  had  passed  o'er  her  face; 
And  the  wonted  lines  back  to  her  cheeks  came  again— 
Again  into  her  voice  the  full,  resonant  strain 
That  had  oft  made  glad  music  in  Richard  Rolfe's  soul; 
And  once  more  o'er  herself  Helen  Graves  had  control. 


CANTO  ELEVENTH. 


MELODY. 


I. 

Came  the  supper:     A  scene  for  the  gods  to  gaze  on! 

.     .     .     Farmer  Graves  lived  in  style  of  the  days  that  are 

gone. 

In  his  old  Southern  home  he  had  bond-servants  held, 
In  large  numbers.     The  messuage  with  life  they  had  filled; 
And  no  meal  had  complete  been  esteemed  in  the  house 
Without  something  less  than  a  full  dozen  black  brows, 
Old  and  young,  great  and  small,  hovering  round  the  board, 
And  contributing  all  their  diffusive  parts  toward 
The  occasion  of  state.     And  this  custom,  so  dear, 
To  which,  in  all  its  cumbrousness,  still  to  adhere, 
Was  the  pride  of  John  Graves,  with  its  memories  fraught, 
WTith  his  household  gods  had  from  Kentucky  been  brought, 
When  he  came  North  and  founded,  his  new  prairie  home; 
And  along  with  him,  freed,  his  old  servants  had  come. 

ii. 

The  great  kitchen!     Blest  he  who  remembers  its  hearth 
So  gigantic,  so  vast,  with  back-log  of  huge  girth, 
And  the  loud-crackling  fire;  and  hath  seen,  in  the  height 
Of  her  glory,  the  cook,  with  a  brow  like  the  night, — 
The  old  "Aunty",  majestic,  broad-shouldered  and  tall, 
Stern,  imperious,  frowning,  in  awe  held  by  all. 


128  HELEN. 

On  this  night  she  was  there,  in  full  bloom,  in  full  power; 

And  whoever  had  dared,  at  this  so  solemn  hour, 

To  infract  her  decrees,  or  her  dignity  scorn, 

Or  make  light  of  her  frown,  had  best  never  been  born. 

in. 

With  the  vast  mass  of  viands  the  table  is  piled. 
There  is  venison,  opossum-meat,  fowl,  tame  and  wild; 
The  materialized  ghosts  of  great  turkeys,  like  faith, 
There  transcendent  in  martyrdom,  triumph  o'er  death; 
And  stuffed  rabbits,  that  counterfeit  life's  native  grace, 
In  roast  pride  laugh  mortality's  self  in  the  face; 
And  mysterious  dishes  of  rare,  toothsome  dainties, 
Evolved  from  the  fathomless  depths  of  old  Aunty's 
Capacious  and  cavernous  brain. 

IV. 

Full  a  score 

At  the  farmer's  o'erladen  board  sit,  though  no  more 
Than  himself  and  the  one  lovely  daughter  belong 
To  his  kith  and  kin  of  the  domesticant  throng. 

v. 

In  the  far,  tender  days  of  a  season  that  came 
Like  the  breath  of  the  angels,  and  left  but  a  name 
And  a  pledge — the  prized  name  to  be  evermore  kept 
As  the  most  sacred  relic  in  memory's  crypt, 
And  the  pledge  to  be  nurtured  and  nourished  in  care, 
And  held  free  from  the  world's  rough  erosion  and  wear, — 
There  was  anchored  a  love  in  those  far  tender  days, 
That  linked  old  Farmer  Graves  to  the  past  and  its  ways. 
And  when,  looking  across  the  broad  table,  he  gazed 
Fondly  on  his  fair  Helen,  his  pride,  there  was  raised 
From  the  depths  of  remembrance  a  Helen  as  fair, 
And  as  sweet,  with  a  beauty  as  bright  and  as  rare, 


MELODY. 

As  now  dwelt  in  his  sight.     And  he  felt  not  the  years 
That  had  passed  as  the  fleetest  of  dreams,  while  his  ears 
For  the  moment  were  deaf  to  the  sounds  of  to-day; 
And  on  memory's  wings  he  had  wandered  away 
To  the  pleasure-fraught  scenes  of  a  sunnier  clime, 
And  the  golden-winged  hours  of  a  happier  time. 

VI. 

At  the  right  hand  of  Helen  sits  Rolfe.     Fair  to  see 
Are  the  twain,  and,  in  unrestrained  comment  and  free, 
L,ow-toned,  favoring  murmurs  the  table  go  round. 

VII. 

"  They  are  made  for  each  other." 

"A  match,  I'll  be  bound!  " 

"  That  thar  young  Yankee  farmer  is  sacked,  I  am  told." 
"  Not  a  man  in  the  country  a  candle  can  hold 
To  Dick  Rolfe." 

"  Well,  that  ought,  sure  enough,  to  be  so,. 
If  he  hopes  with  Miss  Helen  to  stand  any  show." 
' '  When  are  they  to  be  married  ?  ' ' 

"Can't  tell;  in  the  spring, 

It's  most  likely;  for  Christmas,  I'm  thinking,  would  bring 
It  around  altogether  too  soon  for  her,  who, 
Unlike  most  of  our  girls,  is  in  no  haste  to  go 
From  a  home  where  she's  so  loved  and  prized." 

VIII. 

Thus  the  talk 

Flowed  in  currents  of  frankness  through  this  honest  folk, 
And  'twas  clear  that  the  drift  of  the  sentiment  there 
Made  Dick  Rolfe  and  Miss  Helen  a  surely  matched  pair. 

IX. 

And  the  dark  ' '  cloud  of  witnesses  ' '  standing  around 
(Whose  opinions  on  such  themes  were  strikingly  sound) 


130  HELEN. 

Were  a  unit  with  old  Uncle  'Bijah,  who  said, 

As  the  chimney-jam  buttressed  his  white,  woolly  head  : 

"  Yaas  :  Mars'  Dick  an'  Miss  Hellun  'ud  make  a  peert  paar — 

Mos'  as  peert  as  Mars'  John  and  Miss  Hellun  dat  war 

Made  in  ole  Kaintuck  yender,  in  times  long-  ago — 

In  de  days,  Tver  heah  me,  dat  doan'  come  roun'  no  mo'  !  " 

x. 

Richard  Rolfe  was  not  sorry  to  see  that  all  eyes 
Toward  Helen  and  him  were  directed  sidewise  ; 
And  he  easily  gathered,  though  hearing  no  word, 
That  they  two  formed  the  topic  which  ruled  round  the  board; 
Nor  was  old  Farmer  Graves  either  worried  or  vexed 
To  observe  where  the  focal  attention  was  fixed. 
This  last  fact  his  loved  daughter's  sharp  glance  escaped  not ; 
For  she  long  had  suspected  that  if  she  had  sought 
To  please  him  in  the  choice  by  her  heart  to  be  made, 
His  cup  full  would  be  filled  should  she  ' '  Neighbor  Dick"  wed. 

XI. 

How  oft  happens  it,  that,  in  life's  drama,  our  parts, 

Quite  regardless  as  well  of  desires  as  deserts, 

Are  by  others'  hands  for  us  arranged  !     And,  alas, 

How  oft  also  doth  destiny  bring  it  to  pass, 

That  we  yield  our  own  wills  to  the  casts  thus  designed, 

And  assume,  without  protest,  our  r61es  as  assigned  ! 

XII. 

.  .  .  And  what  thought  gentle  Helen  the  while  ?  Did  she  dare 

To  give  rein  to  reflection  ?     Did  she  harbor  care 

As  to  what  this  small  world  was  now  saying  or  thinking  ? 

It  was  plain  that  she  was  neither  shirking  nor  shrinking  ; 

And  one  would  have  said,  nothing  hidden  she  feared  ; 

For  more  full  of  strong  life  had  she  never  appeared  : 


MELODY.  131 

Never  had  she  exerted  herself  more  to  please  ; 
Never  seemed  with  herself  more  completely  at  ease. 

XIII. 

.  .  .  Supper  over,  the  rich  voice  of  Helen  was  heard 

In  such  strains  as  Mark  Landis's  soul  had  oft  stirred, 

And  which  now,  while  with  song  the  great  parlor  they  filled, 

Richard  Rolfe's  breast  with  still  new  and  fresh  delight  thrilled. 

They  rang  through  all  the  house,  and  no  heart  but  was  cheered; 

And  the  darkies,  in  native  tones,  plaintive  and  weird, 

Took  again  the  refrain,  and  gave  back  from  their  throng, 

In  melodious  measure,  the  heart  of  the  song  ; 

Which  was  one  of  loss,  sweetened  by  trust ;  a  strange  strain 

Of  commingled  regret  and  content  ;  a  refrain 

Bearing  in  it  a  sorrow  not  hopeless  ;  a  joy 

Modulated  ;  a  faith  with  scant  earthly  alloy. 

'Twas  I-have-and-have-not,  and  I-love-and-love-not, 

Into  melody  turned,  into  sweet  numbers  wrought. 

XIV. 

But  the  words  lent  not  mainly  the  life  to  the  song  : 
Not  in  them  lay  such  power  the  spell  to  prolong  : 
'Twas  the  voice  that  rang  out  in  mellifluous  waves, 
And,  transcending  the  limits  of  art's  defined  staves, 
Made  a  track  for  itself  over  melody's  sea, 
And  wrought  out  a  new  harmony,  wild,  fresh,  and  free. 
Helen  Graves,  in  her  far  Western  home,  had  discerned 
The  new  harmonic  star  in  the  East,  and  had  learned 
Of  the  prophet  who  had  to  old  Europe  revealed 
What  the  music  sublime  of  the  future  should  yield; 
And  her  soul  had  accepted,  and  uttered  again, 
The  new  gospel  of  melody  given  to  men. 
Thus,  while  half- improvised  was  the  air  that  she  sang, 
In  word-strains  such  as  these  the  rich  symphony  rang : 


HELEN. 

Ool 


O,  the  robin  sang  gaily  a  song  glad  and  rare, 
And  it  floated  far  out  on  the  fresh  morning  air. 
My  heart,  torn  with  o'ershadowing  grief, 
Had  in  vain  sought  relief  ; 

And  I  asked  of  the  robin  : 
"  Red  robin,  tell  me, 

What  so  joyous  and  free  — 

What  it  is  that  your  song  makes  so  joyous  and  free  ?  " 
Then  the  robin  replied, 
While  no  note  of  his  died  ; 

"  I  but  joy  to  reveal  that  my  song  had  its  birth 
In  the  heart  of  the  world,  in  the  sweet  breast  of  earth  : 
For  the  world's  heart  is  warm,  and  the  earth's  breast  is  true  ; 
And,  O,  sad  human  soul,  nature  breathes  but  for  you  !  " 

2. 

And  a  melody  tender  the  nightingale  fair 
Sang,  which  thrilled  with  its  music  the  evening  air. 
I  was  weary,  and  worn  with  unrest, 
And  my  spirit  unblessed  ; 

And  I  said  to  the  nightingale  : 
"  Nightingale,  tell 

What  with  sweetness  doth  swell  — 

What  it  is  that  your  notes  with  such  sweetness  doth  swell." 
And  the  nightingale  said, 
At  the  stars  over  head 

Looking  up  :     "  From  the  soul  of  the  beautiful  night 
Came  my  song  —  soul  as  pure  as  stars  yonder  are  bright  : 
PAor  I  watched  while  the  angels  in  Paradise  dreamed, 
And  my  song  from  the  dreams  they  were  dreaming  I  framed." 


MELODY.  133 

3- 

O,  the  rose  it  bloomed  freshly:  rich  scent  did  it  bear, 
And  it  burdened  the  breath  of  the  soft  summer  air. 
All  my  being  some  malady  long 

With  deep  anguish  had  wrung. 
With  the  rose  then  I  pleaded  : 

"Flush  rose,  tell  the  tale, 

Such  perfume  to  exhale — 

What  it  is  gives  you  power  such  perfume  to  exhale  ?  " 
Then  the  rose  turned  its  head, 
And  with  glowing  face  said  : 

"  Tis  the  world's  better  hope,  'tis  the  fullness  of  faith 
In  the  things  that  shall  be,  gives  me  sweetness  of  breath  ; 
For  it  lends  my  soul  strength,  and  it  yields  my  heart  health, 
And  it  fills  all  my  life  with  affection's  great  wealth." 

4- 

And  the  violet  bended  with  grace,  O,  so  fair, 
As  it  drew  in  the  breath  of  the  afternoon  air. 
Pride  had  darkened  my  days  ;  I  Was  bowed  : 
I  sought  rifts  in  the  cloud. 
I  appealed  tq  the  violet : 
"  Violet,  say, 

With  content  all  the  day — 
What  it  is  with  content  fills  you  all  the  long  day." 

And  the  violet  said: 
' '  There  is  love  overhead : 

There  is  love  all  around  me,  though  little  I'm  seen; 
And  I  know  I  am  loved;  thus  my  heart  is  serene; 
And  I  care  not  to  bask  in  the  sunshine's  broad  glare; 
For  love  lives  in  the  shade,  and  there's  love  everywhere." 


134 


HELEN. 


.  When,  in  blissful  sensations  rapt,  homeward  he  drove, 
Richard  felt  a  new  life  his  ambitious  breast  move. 
He  in  Helen  an  undefined  something  had  seen 
Placing  her  far  beyond  his  aesthetic  demesne. 
This  invested  her  with  a  new  charm  in  his  eyes, 
And  renewed  his  resolve  to  secure  the  high  prize. 
.     .     .  Once  again,  Helen  Graves,  now  beware,  O,  beware  ! 
Your  besieger  seems  triumph  to  scent  in  the  air. 
The  siege  now  will  be  stronger,  the  lines  closer  drawn; 
Keep  your  ramparts  well  manned,  your  portcullis  let  down  ! 


For  1 1ovc  your  great  heart,  Jfiarli,  my  hing  !     If  you  live, 
If  you  die,  J  am  yours,  I  am  yours,  to  tho  end. 


CANTO  TWELFTH. 


LOVE. 


I. 

Helen  went  to  her  chamber,  but  not  to  find  sleep. 

Long  she  sat  in  a  re  very,  reaching  and  deep. 

Strong  emotions,  now  bursting  their  chains,  ruled  her  breast, 

And  refused  to  permit  it  in  quiet  to  rest. 

She  arose,  and,  while  facing  the  window,  her  gaze 

Rested  on  the  full  moon,  whose  pure,  affluent  rays 

Filled  with  glory  the  room,  and  transfigured  her  form, 

As  she  stood  in  communion  with  thoughts  which  the  storm 

That  had  freshly  swept  o'er  her  had  brought  to  her  brain — 

Thoughts  that  drew  regret's  phantoms  along  in  their  train. 

In  this  mood  she  reviewed  the  thronged  scenes  of  the  day, 

And  soliloquized  thus,  in  a  woman's  own  way  : 

ii. 

"  O,  Mark  L/andis,  I  cannot  absolve  you  from  blame: 
I  reproach  you  for  not  having  courage  to  claim, 
As  a  brave  claimant  should,  e'en  in  face  of  pale  death, — 
Yea,  despite  the  dread  warning  of  destiny's  wraith, — 
What  were  yours  without  cavil. 

"If  but  for  one  day 

To  your  breast  you  had  held  it,  then  flung  it  away! 
To  have  lived  but  one  hour  closed  as  fast  in  your  clasp 
As  I  was  in  his  manly  and  masterful  grasp — 


•138  HELEN. 

That  were  food  to  feed  life;  that  were  air  to  give  breath; 
That  were  light  to  guide  hope;  that  were  truth  to  light  faith; 
That  were  plenteous  wealth  for  all  time  to  supply 
The  vast  treasure-house  wherein  love's  memories  lie  ! 
And  yet  you  to  the  winds  with  base  recklessness  flung 
An   affection  that  through  death's  dark  shades  would  have 
clung.  , 

in. 

"  In  return  for  your  weakness  of  heart,  I  should  throw 
My  whole  soul  into  this  proffered  new  love,  to  show 
My  deep  scorn  of  a  craven!  .   .  . 

..."  Mark  L,aiidis,  my  lord 

And  my  master,  my  brave  knight,  forgive  me  that  word! 
Sovran  prince  of  my  soul,  you  are  brave,  you  are  true, 
And  among  all  the  heroes  I  find  none  like  you ! 
Unto  you,  unto  you,  my  heart's  worship  I  give; 
For  I  love  your  great  heart,  Mark,  my  king! 

"  If  you  live, 

If  you  die,  I  am  yours,  I  am  yours,  to  the  end, 
Be  it  near,  be  it  far,  O,  my  lover,  my  friend! 

IV. 

" — To  the  end,  did  I  say? — to  the  end  of  true  love? 
Have  God's  aeons  an  end?     Have  the  star-realms  above 
A  ceiled  vault  in  the  far  empyrean  defined? 

v. 

"  No!     As  quenchless  as  faith,  and  as  scathless  as  mind, 
As  eternal  as  truth,  as  confineless  as  space, 
'As  unfading  as  hope,  as  unstinted  as  grace, 
By  the  throne  of  Jehovah,  when  time's  tale  is  told, 
And  earth's  life  but  a  dream,  love  its  station  shall  hold. 
It  shall  stand  by  the  River  of  Water  of  Life, 
Glorified  by  the  wounds  of  the  world's  reddened  strife. 


U)VE.  130 

There  my  soul  shall  meet  thine,  O,  my  lover,  my  friend: 
There,  where  love  hath  no  bounds:  there,  where  love  hath  no 
end!" 

VI. 

Again  seated,  she  leaned  her  head  back  in  her  chair, 
Overwearied  with  broodings  so  freighted  with  care. 

VII. 

Ah,  Mark  Landis!  why  could  not  one  tone  of  this  plaint 
Reach  your  ear?     Without  selfish  or  temporal  taint 
Was  this  grand  aspiration,  this  more  than  a  prayer, — 
Hope's  triumphant  cry  rising  from  depths  of  despair; 
Love's  confession  of  faith,  fervent,  lofty,  sublime, 
Creed  as  broad  as  the  world,  as  embracing  as  time! 
At  that  hour,  when  all  better  impulses  held  sway 
In  this  brave,  struggling  spirit,  why  could  there  not  stray 
Some  kind  angel  from  routine  of  duty  above, 
And  come  down  to  do  one  gracious  service  for  love, 
By  but  wafting  a  breath  from  this  muffled,  true  heart 
To  the  one,  yonder,  bleeding,  in  silence,  apart? 
.   .   .  Why,  ah,  why!     All  uncounted  the  hearts  in  the  track 
Of  dark  fate  that  the  myriadfold  echo  send  back! 

VIII. 

.  .  .  For  a  while  from  the  flesh  Helen's  soul  had  been  freed, 
And  by  still  waters  roamed,  in  a  Paradise-mead, 
And  amid  shaded  bowers,  and  in  cool,  fairy  grots, 
And  where  hope  found  fruition. 

But  ere  long  her  thoughts, 

In  despite  of  her  heart's  protestations,  were  turned 
To  this  man  in  whose  bosom  a  love  for  her  burned, 
Whose  red  flames  flashed  defiantly  in  their  fierce  wrath — 
This  reality  dread,  standing  straight  in  her  path. 


140  HELEN. 

IX. 

And  she  asked  of  herself  : 

' '  Must  I  learn  to  love  him? 
Must  I  meet  and  embrace  this  fatality  grim? 
And  what  sort  of  a  love  were  it  thus  that  I  gave? 
It  were  fruit  of  a  tree  whose  roots  spring  in  a  grave! 
And  him  could  I  love  ever?     O,  heart,  ask  me  not! 
Leave  me  free  from  the  questions  with  soul-torture  fraught! 
What  I  do,  or  do  not,  let  the  future  decide: 
For  this  hour  let  me  rest — let  me  float  with  the  tide. 
On  its  bosom  while  onward  my  barque  shall  be  borne, 
Near  or  far  if  the  rapids  be,  let  me  not  learn, 
If  I  yearn,  if  I  struggle,  'tis  vain;  yet — and  yet — " 

x. 

Again  swept  o'er  her  being  a  wave  of  regret, 
And  upon  it  her  spirit,  with  love's  tumult  worn, 
To  the  restful  dominions  of  Dreamland  was  borne; 
For  her  senses,  o'erwearied,  resigned  their  control, 
And  she  dreamed  such  a  dream  as  brought  peace  to  her  soul. 

XI. 

Blessed,  now  and  forever,  be  Dreamland  the  fair! 

If  with  life's  battle  faint,  we  find  truce  sounded  there; 

If  care's  cloud  has  grown  black,  there  light  gleams  through 

the  rifts; 
If  grief  weighs  down  the  heart,  there  some  sprite  the  soul  lifts. 

•1*  *T*  *»*  *T* 

XII. 

Blithely  passed  the  gay  season  with  Rolfe,  and  it  seemed 
That  this  bright  world  with  only  delight  for  him  teemed; 
While  the  days  all  too  quickly  flew  over  his  head, 
And  scarce  reached  seemed  its  midst,  when,  lo !  winter  was  dead. 


141 


XIII. 

And  how  prospered  the  siege? 

Helen's  heart  still  held  out, 

Though  one  outwork  was  captured  —  the  Pity  redoubt. 
Sympathy  for  the  man  who  was  wasting  on  her 
The  devotion  paid  idol  by  blind  worshiper, 
And  desire  to  please  him  who  on  her  had  bestowed 
Her  life,  blossoming  ever  with  bliss,  until  showed, 
Its  horizon  above,  love's  dread  planet,  and  brought 
To  her  heart  the  fierce  storm  which  such  ravage  had  wrought, 
Well  nigh  made  her  at  times  pray  to  Heaven  to  turn 
Her  so  obdurate  heart,  and  to  aid  it  to  learn 
To  love  him  whom  fate  thus  seemed  to  place  in  her  way. 
.    .  <  Yet  the  spring  found  her  heart,  where  in  autumn  it  lay, 
At  the  feet  of  Mark  L,andis.     Though  pitying  Rolfe, 
There  was  still  between  her  love  and  him  a  wide  gulf. 

XIV. 

And  that  never  was  winter  so  weary,  was  what, 
By  his  hearth  sitting  lonely,  Mark  Landis  had  thought  — 
Sitting  lonely  there,  or,  with  his  sociable  beasts, 
Keeping  company  while  they  partook  of  their  feasts. 

xv. 

Thus  these  variant  phases  did  winter  assume 
To  three  hearts  passing  on  through  its  sunshine  and  gloom,  — 
Passing  on  to  the  bourne  of  all  seasons  and  years, 
To  quietus  of  heart-beats,  heart-pangs,  and  heart-cares. 


PART  SECOND 


TRIAL? 


CANTO  FIRST. 


WAR. 


I. 

There  was  war  in  the  land. 

Passions  stronger  than  death, 

Deep  as  hell,  and  as  burning  as  Jjtna's  fierce  breath, 
Bursting  forth,  rent  the  heart  of  the  nation  in  twain. 

ii. 

For  the  chronicler-bard  it  were  fruitless  and  vain, 
To  seek  causes  and  sources  to  trace  of  the  strife, 
Which,  thus  waged  in  mad  hate  o'er  the  nation's  warm  life, 
While  it  gave  to  her  bondmen  the  boon  to  be  free, 
Left  such  memories  rankling  in  years  yet  to  be, 
As  to  cloud  all  the  good  that  may  from  it  have  flown, 
Leaving  war  still  a  curse  unapproached  and  alone 
In  demoniac  balefulness,  earth's  supreme  bane, 
And  our  civilization's  Plutonian  stain. 
Let  the  truthful,  impartial  historian  frame 
An  indictment  to  fasten  the  burden  of  blame; 
For  opinions  formed  in  the  war-smoke  of  to-day, 
Be  they  those  of  sage,  statesman,  or  bard,  must  give  way 
To  the  judgments  of  riper  and  wiser  to-morrow; 
And  poets  in  no  wise  can  trench  on  or  borrow 
From  history's  oracles. 


146  HELEN. 

III. 

War  ruled  the  land: 

Its  wild  spirit  was  master  on  every  hand. 
It  pervaded  the  pulpit ;  through  courts  and  schools  swept; 
It  invaded  the  precincts  of  home,  and  guard  kept 
Over  men's  tongues  and  women's,  to  see  that  none  wavered — 
That  naught  should  be  uttered  of  peace-thoughts  that  savored. 

iv. 

O,  thou  L,ord  God  of  Sabaoth!     Hasten  the  day, 
When  men,  brothers,  no  longer  in  war's  red  array 
Shall  do  battle  and  murder  in  any  named  cause, 
Be  it  for  freedom's  semblances,  mutable  laws, 
Constitutions  ambiguous,  rights  sprung  from  wrong, 
Or  gray  crime-grants,  embalmed  in  fair  story  and  song; 
For  weak  governments,  guided  by  freaks  of  the  hour. 
Or  for  kinglets  who  reach  for  imperial  power  ; 
Or  to  serve  feuds  begotten  in  statesmen's  intrigues, 
Or  their  mistresses'  whims,  or  dark  cabals  or  leagues, 
In  a  morbid  philanthrophy's  frenzied  designs, 
Or  in  conflicts  of  creeds,  or  disputes  of  divines  : 
Or  for  any  right,  interest,  faith,  or  pretext. 
Based  on  claims  in  this  world,'  or  on  hopes  in  the  next, 
Sprung  to  light  fires  of  hell  in  the  earth's  peaceful  vales, 
And  with  cries  of  the  furies  freight  freshening  gales! 

v. 

.   .   .  Richard  Rolfe  was  a  patriot.     Love  of  the  land 
That  had  given  him  birth,  with  its  area  grand, 
With  its  masterful  millions  of  monarchs  uncrowned, 
With  its  true  recognition  of  labor  unbound, 
With  its  wealth,  and  its  strength,  and  its  greatness,  was  strong 
In  his  breast,  and  he  asked  not  her  right  nor  her  wrong, 


WAR.  14? 

When  a  loud  call  to  arms  by  his  country  was  made, 

Which  he  no  sooner  heard  than  he  promptly  obeyed. 

He  affected  no  fine  metaphysics,  and  therefore 

Stopped  not,  searching  after  the  why  and  the  wherefore 

Of  this  mighty  quarrel,  but  reasoned  in  that, 

As  in  all  issues  coming  before  him,  from  what 

To  his  mind  appeared  patent,  and  (frown  not,  my  muse, 

While  I  here  the  expressive  vernacular  use) 

Reasoned  "  straight  from  the  shoulder  ",  as  patriots  should: 

Thus,  without. any  if  or  and,  ready  had  stood, 

And  at  once,  dropping  schemes,  dropping  love,  dropping  all 

Life  held  dear,  had  marched  forth  at  the  nation's  sharp  call. 


VI. 

Behold  yonder  fair  landscape!     The  calm  smile  of  God 

Seems  to  rest  on  it,  brighten  it,  hallow  its  sod. 

Watch  the  stream  o'er  its  pebbles  run  rippling  along; 

Hear  it  purl  like  the  rythmical  spirit  of  song; 

Observe  yon  still  retreats,  whither  lovers  might  steal, 

Their  hearts'  secrets  to  nature's  close  ear  to  reveal; 

Mark  the  breeze  o'er  the  fields  of  the  golden  grain  sweep, 

Standing  ready  for  reapers  who  come  not  to  reap; 

See  the  farm-house  that  stands  in  the  maple-trees'  shade — 

But,  say,  where  are  the  tenants? — asleep,  or  all  fled? 

See  in  pasture  and  upland  the  cattle  and  sheep 

Calmly  grazing— how  sagely  the  secret  they  keep 

If  a  secret  this  landscape  there  be  hanging  o'er; 

But  the  bees  in  the  meads  are  a  gossiping  corps; 

And  the  birds  in  the  apple-trees  carol  so  gay, 

That  all  nature  seems  taking  a  glad  holiday. 


148  HELEN. 

VII. 

But  again  look,  and  closer,  o'er  this  quiet  scene. 
Do  ye  see,  lying  hid  in  those  thickets  of  green, 
Lying  buried  'neath  waves  of  the  golden -eared  grain, 
Crouching,  sheltered  by  stable,  by  shed,  rick,  and  wain, 
Creeping  under  the  banks  of  the  murmuring  stream, 
On  whose  surface  the  sunbeams  dance,  sparkle,  and  gleam, 
And  hid  close  'neath  the  roses  whose  breath  freights  the  air, 
Human  forms,  watching,  waiting,  like  Nemeses  there  ? 

VIII. 

Are  these  savages,  lurking  to  seize  on  their  prey  ? 

Not  at  all !     They  are  soldiers,  awaiting  the  fray. 

They  are  civilized  foemen,  in  war's  earnest  vein; 

They  are  men  on  the  picket-line,  watching  for  men,— 

Watching  sharply  for  forms  like  their  own  to  come  forth; 

For  the  forms  of  men,  kindred  in  race  and  in  birth; 

Watching  closely  for  chances  to  slay  them  at  sight, — 

Yea,  to  slay  them  with  calmness,  in  glare  of  the  light 

Of  this  radiant,  glad,  early  summer  mid-day, 

In  the  face  of  God's  love,  and  his  "  Thou  shalt  not  slay!  " 

rx. 
And,   mark!      Yonder,  where  meadow-lands  skirt  the  dense 

grove, 

Now  appear  here  and  there,  and  as  stealthly  move, 
Other  forms,  other  men,  other  uniformed  foes, 
Likewise  waiting,  and  watching,  and  lurking  for  those 
Who  are  brethren  in  interest,  brethren  in  blood, 
Eager  with  them  to  plunge  into  slaughter's  red  flood. 

x. 

One  thin,  white  puff  of  smoke  now  with  suddenness  leaps 
From  a  clump  of  trees  round  which  the  rivulet  sweeps; 


WAR.  149 

And  a  sharp,  stinging  sound  the  day's  charmed  stillness  breaks, 

And  the  first  echoes  of  the  approaching  fight  wakes. 

Then  in  rapid  succession  conies  shot  after  shot. 

Picket-firing  has  opened!     The  skirmish  is  hot; 

And  along  the  bright  stream  now  the  roused  foemen  press, 

While  at  each  rush  their  numbers  grow  fearfully  less, 

As  they  one  by  one  fall  in  the  silvery  flood, 

And  the  waters  pellucid  grow  dark  with  their  blood. 

XI. 

.   .   .  But  that's  barely  a  brush — merely  skirmishers'  play: 
They  have  hardly  yet  opened  the  glorious  day! 

XII. 

On  the  farther  confines  of  the  picket-line,  hark, 
Where  across  the  wide  fields  the  long-range  rifles  bark. 
They  have  there  a  rare  sharpshooters' -match!     One  detects 
How  each  marksman  his  doomed  human  target  selects. 

XIII. 

"  Yonder  stands  a  proud  youth,  in  his  confident  strength: 

It  is  far,  but  my  rifle  will  carry  that  length. 

.   .   .  Ha!     I  brought  him!     My  lad,   they  will  wait  for  you 

long, 

In  your  loved,  distant  home,  when  the  evening  song 
WTith  hushed  voices  is  sung;  and — oh,  God!     /am  hit! 
'Twas  a  home  shot!  .   .   .   Boys,  leave  me  reclining  a  bit; 
Please,  a  drink!     Jim,  this  keepsake  to  poor  Mary  send. 
.  .   .  What.     Are  you  also  struck  ?     Well,  old  comrade  and 

friend, 

Then  together  we'll  die;  and  some  one  may  yet  tell 
At  our  homes,  how  .here  in  the  front,  fighting,  we  fell." 

XIV. 

"Jack,  d'you  note  that  white  beard  ?    It's  a  good  mark  for  me: 
I  am  going  to  draw  a  dead  bead  on  it  .   .   .     See! 


350  HELEN. 

It  is  not  quite  as  white  as  it  was!     Hit  the  throat! 
'Tis  an  officer:   tell  by  the  braid  on  his  coat. 
This  will  gain  me  a  chevron,  I  hope;  and  I'll  soon, 
If  I  score  a  few  more  such  fine  shots  as  this  one, 
Sport  a  shoulder-strap." 

xv. 

Thus  goes  the  skirmishing  on, 
While  still  hotter  and  hotter  the  firing  has  grown  ; 
And  they  fall,  not  by  ones,  but  by  tens,  and  by  scores. 
Now  the  flying  artillery  belches  and  roars; 
They  are  shelling  the  woods,  and,  ah!  these  are  on  fire, 
Of  the  wounded  and  dead  alike  making  a  pyre! 

XVI. 

The  two  armies,  at  length,  in  unmasked  strength  come  forth, — 
Cannon,  cavalry,  infantry,  shaking  the  earth; 
The  great  guns  blazing  fire  with  hoarse  hell  in  their  breath, 
And  the  fierce  dragoons  trampling  and  sabring  to  death. 
By  the  hundreds,  the  thousands,  the  brave  foemen  fall ! 
God  of  mercy !     A  truce  to  the  mad  carnage  call ! 

XVII. 

...  At  last,  pitying  night,  with  its  sad,  kindly  face, 
With  its  friendly  enwrapment,  to  wild  day  gives  place, 
And  the  combatants,  weary  with  slaughter,  retire, 
To  renew  on  the  morrow  the  havoc  of  fire. 

XVIII. 

O,  bright  landscape  that  lay  in  the  morning  so  fair, 
Where  are  now  your  glad  beauties,  which  laughed  in  the  air  ? 
Where  is  now  the  ripe  grain  that  in  golden  pride  stood  ? 
Darkly  runs  yonder  stream  with  clear  current  that  flowed! 
O,  sweet  rose-tree,  'neath  which  a  brave  form  was  espied, 
Redder  than  your  red  roses  your  leaves  now  are  dyed; 


WAR.  151 

And  where  breathed  in  the  morning  the  balm  of  your  breath, 

There  now  rises  a  dank,  sickly  odor  of  death! 

O,  ye  apple-trees,  then  thick  with  bright  blossoming, 

Small  the  fruitage  that  with  autumn's  gold  you  will  bring! 

O,  ye  birds  that  made  vocal  those  apple-tree  boughs, 

As  glad  songs  as  this  morn's  the  next  sun  will  not  rouse! 

XIX. 

The  black  demon  of  war  now  his  tenure  doth  yield, 
For  the  angel  of  mercy  hath  charge  of  the  field, 
And  her  servitors  gather  the  wounded  and  dead, 
While  repairing  the  waste  which  that  demon  hath  made. 

xx. 

..."  Who  is  this  that  so  slowly  and  sadly  you  bear  ?  " 
"  'Tis  an  officer,  for  better  dress  does  he  wear 
Than  the  foe's  rank  and  file:  that,  however,  is  all 
We  can  tell.     He  was  hit  with  a  large  musket-ball 
In  the  breast,  very  close  to  the  lungs.     Not  a  word, 
Since  we  took  his  form  up,  from  his  lips  has  been  heard, 
Except  one." 

"And  that?" 

"Helen." 

' '  Bah !     How  will  this  aid 
To  identify  him  ?     We  have  loverless  made 
Many  hundreds  of  Helens  by  work  this  day  done. 
Dress  his  wound.     Report:   '  Prisoner,  wounded,  unknown.' ' 


CANTO  SECOND. 


RESOLVE. 


I. 

On  the  prairies  are  summer's  full  glories  displayed, 
And  the  groves  in  their  deepest  of  green  are  arrayed. 

n. 

Helen  Graves  on  the  spacious  veranda  is  sitting, 
While  the  moments  on  idle  wings  past  her  are  flitting — 
The  veranda,  low,  Southern-styled,  old  fashioned,  quaint, 
But  as  dear  to  her  heart  as  the  shrine  of  a  saint; 
Round  her  climbing  the  vines,  in  rich,  clustering  grace, 
Through  whose  veil  the  warm  sunshine  steals  over  her  face. 
She  has  sat  there  and  dreamed  in  the  motherless  years 
Of  her  childhood,  when  dreams  were  oft  melted  in  tears — 
Tears  not  such  as  of  waters  of  Marah  partake, 
But  like  unto  the  dew  left  when  April  mists  break. 

in. 

.  .   .  Since  the  day  Richard  Rolfe,  at  his  regiment's  head, 
Marching  off  to  the  war,  "  Good  bye!"  gentlj'  had  said, 
With  love's  own  look  of  fondness,  herself  she  had  sought 
In  the  court  of  her  conscience  to  tr)r.     She  had  brought 
'Gainst  herself  all  the  charges  that  could  be  devised 
By  accusing  remorse. 

IV. 

The  indictment  comprised 
Man}-  counts. 


_ 

se  2 


—    . 
.«.    aj 


RESOLVE.  155 

This  the  first  one:  that  with  subtle  art, 
She  had  blinded,  beguiled,  and  betrayed  her  own  heart; 
Next,  that  she  to  Mark  L/andis,  in  wrotigfulest  scorn, 
Had  denied  her  heart's  child,  which  was  honestly  born; 
Then,  that  false  and  deceptive  herself  she  had  shown 
To  the  true  heart  from  brave  Richard  Rolfe  she  had  won ; 
And,  again,  to  her  own  soul  unfaithful  had  proved, 
And  untrue  to  its  high  aspirations;  unmoved 
Sat  while  with  their  grand  issues  the  starred  days  went  by, 
And  no  part  sought  to  take,  and  no  venture  to  try; 
Had  sat  cowering,  shrinking,  'mid  ghosts  of  regret, 
Without  courage  to  hope,  or  the  will  to  forget; 
With  no  strong  trust  to  cling  to,  no  great  end  to  gain; 
With  no  plenary  love  the  heart's  strength  to  sustain, 
While  beneath  the  soul's  care  it  should  grow  in  love's  grace, 
But  to  gather  its  fruitage  as  seasons  increase. 

v. 

On  behalf  of  Self,  then,  Pity  put  in  the  plea, 
That  the  strong  arm  of  fate  had  not  left  her  hands  free; 
And  that  not  on  Self  wholly  the  fault-burden  lay; 
That  love  had  been  by  circumstance  robbed  of  its  sway. 

VI. 

To  this  plea,  the  heart,  joining  the  issue,  demurred, 
And  made  earnest  and  fervent  demand  to  be  heard 
On  its  own  behalf,  claiming  that  love  hath  no  law; 
That  the  heart  of  no  task-master  standeth  in  awe, 
Save  love's  self;  and  that  love  that  is  true  love  doth  stand 
Over  fate,  as  the  firmament  over  the  land. 

VII. 

Then  stern  Conscience,  the  judge,  judgment  gave  on  this  wise: 
That  Self  had  been  most  blameful;  that  through  sacrifice 


156  HELEN. 

Only  e'er  can  the  spirit  gain  peace,  and  be  blest; 
That  as  Self  had  not  sacrificed,  Self  had  no  rest. 

•  vni. 

Then  did  Self  murmur  at  the  decree,  and  complain: 
"Did  I  not,  in  the  travail  of  woe  and  of  pain, 
Sacrifice  my  one  treasure — plunge  into  my  breast 
With  my  own  hand  the  knife  where  the  idol  lay  pressed?" 

IX. 

"Nay.  not  so,"   answered  Conscience,  the  judge;   "name  not 

aught 

That  with  spirit  of  vengence  is  thought  or  is  wrought. 
As  intent  or  as  deed  sacrificial.     Vainly  made 
Is  the  offering,  save  on  the  true  altar  laid." 

x. 

Then  was  dumb  the  condemned,  guilty  Self; 
And  it  only  thought  this: 

"For  the  paltriest  pelf, 

For  poor  pottage  and  leeks,  for  the  lees  of  the  hour, 
I  have  sold,  I  have  bartered,  the  heart's  gentle  power! 

ft. 

But  to  gratify  spleen,  but  to  humor  caprice, 

I  have  breached,  I  have  blasted  the  heart's  sacred  peace!'1 

XI. 

Inquisition  the  sternest  the  culprit  now  made 
On  her  treatment  of  Rolfe,  and  her  conduct  thus  weighed: 
"  And  where,  then,  do  I  stand,  in  the  light  of  the  love 
Of  this  great  heart,  this  proved  heart,  my  own  far  above, 
Of  this  stout  heart  that  bravely  went  forth,  that  may  now, 
While  I  here  idly  pine,  in  death's  stillness  lie  low,— 
Where  do  I,  in  that  light,  beaming  honestly,  stand? 

XII. 

"Shade  of  Madam  Marsile!     My  brow  wears  the  dark  brand 


RESOLVE.  157 

Of  a  falsehood  embodied,  as  deep  as  the  soul, 

As  offensive  and  rank  as  a  breath  from  Sheol. 

Him  I  never  have  loved;  yet  I  never  have  dared, 

Coward  base  that  I  am,  let  my  bosom  be  bared, 

And  its  secrets  be  shown.     Did  I  need  be  ashamed 

That  these  secrets  so  cherished  be  known  and  be  named? 

God  of  Heaven,  forgive  me!     My  sin  is  too  great: 

I  bend  low  with  the  burden — I  break  'neath  its  weight!" 

XIII. 

With  her  face  in  her  hands  buried,  and  her  dark  hair 
Flowing  loosely  and  mantling  her  form,  she  sat  there, 
And  longed  only  for  tears — for  such  tears  as  had  flown 
In  the  bright,  sunny  days  that  her  childhood  had  known. 

XIV. 
.   .   .  Up  and  down  this  large  world  I  have  roamed,  far  and 

wide, 

And  full  many  a  woman  have  met  in  her  pride, 
And  full  many  a  one  in  her  humbleness  seen, 
And  some  myriads  more  in  the  golden  between; 
But,  a§  far  as  I've  waridered,  I've  never  met  one, 
In  whatever  clime  under  the  sweet-smiling  sun, 
In  the  sleepy  old  lands  that  are  washed  by  the  Rhine, 
Or  the  wide-awake  realms  Mississippi's  banks  line, 
Where  the  Mediterranean's  blue  billows  leap, 
Or  where  over  the  Pampas  the  Andes  gales  sweep, 
Old  or  young,  grave  or  gay,  brune  or  blonde,  plain  or  fair, 
Or  as  ugly  as  sin,  or  with  loveliness  rare, 
I  have  never  met  female  who  did  not  feel  better, 
Whatsoe'er  her  condition,  when  handed  a  letter. 

xv. 

Helen  Graves  was  to  this  no  exception.     She  stirred 
With  a  feeling  of  joyous  surprise,  when  she  heard 


158  HELEN. 

From  her  dear  parent's  lips,  that  lie  held  in  his  hand 
For  his  darling  a  missive. 

From  Revery-land 
She  came  back,  and  looked  up  through  her  curls;  and  there 

stood, 

Gazing  down  upon  her  in  the  tenderest  mood, 
The  benign,  loving-kindness  filled,  worshiping  form, 
That,  a  vigilant  warder,  in  sunshine  and  storm, 
Had  been  guarding,  adoring  her,  all  the  years  through; 
Though  of  ward,ah,  how  little  the  fond  warder  knew! 

XVI. 

THE  LETTER . 
DEAREST  COUSIN  : 

Although  not  inclined  to  forget 
That  in  our  correspondence  you  stand  in  my  debt; 
Yet  I  disregard  scruples  in  now  writing  you, 
And  in  sending  you  this,  as  I  must  send  it,  through 
The  close-drawn  lines  of  war,  and  unsealed,  which,  you  know, 
To  a  woman  who  has  no  vain  itching  for  show, 
Is  intensely  annoying,  especially  when 
One  has  something  to  say  that  one  wants  not  rude  men 
To  peer  over,  which  now  just  the  case  is  with  me. 
.  .  .  Pray,  when  were  you  engaged,  Cousin?   *Or,  can  it  be 
That  you're  married? — And  this,  by  the  way, brings  me  straight 
To  my  point,  for  which,  doubtless,  you  anxiously  wait. 
After  one  of  the  battles  they've  recently  fought, 
A  supposed  dying  officer,  captive,  was  brought 
To  the  outpost  at  which  brother  Harry  commands, 
And,  too  feeble  to  move,  was  left  there  in  his  hands; 
And  this  prisoner's  lips  have  been  since  closely  sealed 
In  unconsciousness,  just  as  when  borne  from  the  field, 


RESOLVE.  150 

Save  when  fitfully  breathing  one  name  with  low  moan, 

And  that  name,  strange  to  say,  my  dear  Cousin;  your  own. 

But  still  stranger:  a  locket  was  found  in  his  breast, 

Which  was  covered  with  blood,  and  all  battered,  and  pressed 

Fairly  into  the  flesh,  but  thus  breaking  the  force 

Of  the  ball,  and  deflecting  its  death-seeking  course. 

And  the  locket,  thus  shielding  his  bosom  in  part, 

Kept  the  bullet  from  bedding  itself  in  his  heart; 

Though  it  ploughed  through  his  breast,  tearing  like  a  hacked 

knife, 

And  the  mangled  frame  left  but  a  shadow  of  life. 
And  the  closing  fact  for  me  remains  now  to  tell, 
That  the  locket  contained  your  own  likeness,  dear  Nell! 
— Thus  wrrites  Harry,  who  wants  me  to  ask  you  to  give 
This  poor  officer's  name,  and  his  rank.     Should  he  live, 
Harry  says,  for  your  sake,  he  will  do  what  he  may 
To  procure  his  exchange. 

.   .   .  Cousin  Nell,  do  you  pray 
That  this  carnage  may  cease?     Let  us  plead 
Daily  that  mercy's  angel  may  soon  intercede, 
Brothers'  daggers  from  bosoms  of  brothers  to  keep. 
It  is  all  we  poor  women  can  do,  save  to  weep, 
And  to  bind  up  the  wounds  that  are  made  day  by  day, 
While  the  spirit  of  hate  hourly  widens  its  sway. 
.   .   .  You  are  wrong,  you  know,  Nell,  in  this  war;  but  I  bear 
Toward  you  no  ill-will,  as  your  home  is  up  there; 
Though  all  kin  I've  foresworn,  to  the  end  of  my  days, 
WTho  down  here  for  your  cause  voice  or  arm  e'er  shall  raise. 
.  .  .  And  ties  not  those  of  blood  I  have  severed  for  aye. 
You  remember  the  lover  I  had?     He's  away 
In  the  enemv's  ranks. 


160  HELEN.  9. 

Thus  heart-troubles  in  waves 
Flood  the  breast  of 

Your  ever  dear  Cousin, 

MAUD  GRAVES. 

XVII. 

What  is  grander,  sublimer,  in  nature  or  thought, 

Than  the  birth  of  a  noble  resolve?     Tell  me  not 

Of  a  Venus  arising  from  depths  of  the  sea; 

Tell  me  not  of  a  sunburst  illuming  a  lea; 

Tell  me  not  of  Aurora  from  billows  of  dawn 

Springing  up,  by  her  coursers  aerial  drawn; 

Tell  me  not  of  a  rose  bursting  forth  in  its  bloom. 

When  the  soul  bringeth  forth  from  its  faith-pregnant  womb 

A  great  purpose  of  good,  to  be  baptized  of  hope, 

And  full-armed  to  proceed  with  earth's  powers  to  cope, 

Or  to  sacrifice,  suffer,  or  silently  bear, 

There's  but  one  thing  in  time  with  which  it  can  compare: 

'Tis  the  scene  in  the  manger,  where  burned  the  bright  star,— 

'Tis  Immanuel's  one  glorified  avatar. 

XVIII. 

From  perusing  the  letter,  arose  Helen  Graves, 
With  a  soul  such  as  frownings  of  destiny  braves; 
With  a  heart  such  as  circumstance-barriers  leaps; 
With  a  breast  such  as  counsel  with  energy,  keeps. 
No  more  yieldings  to  siren  suggestions  of  ease; 
No  more  base,  cringing  compromise-making  for  peace; 
No -more  crouching  'neath  shadows  of  doubt  or  of  fear. 
Stand  back,  tempters!     A  live,  earnest  woman  is  here! 
Shrink  back,  demons  of  darkness,  and  skulk  to  your  caves! 
You  are  no  longer  masters  where  breathes  Helen  Graves! 
She  is  queen  of  herself.     She,  in  grace  and  in  power, 
Proudly  steps  forth  and  rules,  is  not  ruled  by  the  hour! 


RESOLVE.  161 

xix. 

.  .  .  Farmer  Graves,  sitting  under  the  shade  of  his  trees, 
Was  enjoying  his  pipe  and  his  afternoon's  ease. 
Helen  came  and  sat  down  on  his  knee,  and  caressed, 
Petted,  fondled  him,  stroked  his  gray  beard,  and  then  pressed 
His  great  hands  in  her  small  ones,  and  toyed  with  his  fists, 
And  at  length  tied  together  with  ribbons  his  wrists. 
"  N9W,"  she  said,  "  you're  my  prisoner.     I  must  take  you 
Far  away  with  me,  as  they  with  war-captives  do; 
And  I'll  hold  you  in  bonds  till  you  heed  my  behest." 

xx. 

"Yes,  my  girl,"  he  replied,  in  half  earnest,  half  jest; 
"You  shall  take  me  wharever  you  please.     I  will  go 
Far  and  long — round  the  world,  if  you  choose.     L,et  me  know 
Whar  and  when  you  would  travel.     I'm  yours  to  command." 

XXI. 

"  If  you  only  were  serious;"  and  her  soft  hand 
She  then  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  into  his  eyes 
So  intently  she  gazed,  that  a  silent  surprise 
Overspread  his  mild  face,  and  he  said: 

"What,  my  child! 

Do  you  doubt  me?-    Have  I  once  with  promise  beguiled 
That  thar  trusting  and  all-loving  heart?     Nary  word 
From  these  lips,  now  or  ever,  my  girl,  have  you  heard, 
But  the  truth.     I  for  you  am  all  truth.     Though  I  lied 
L,ike  the  veriest  thief  to  the  whole  world  beside, 
To  my  darling  I  would  not,  ^could  not  lie  and  live. 
She  has  all  of  my  confidence.     Now,  will  she  give 
To  her  father  and  friend  some  small  part  of  her  own?" 

XXTT. 

Helen  shrank  at  his  searching  glance,  while  he  went. on: 


1G2  HELEN. 

' '  Tell  me  what  is  the  longing  that  gives  you  unrest : 

Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  give  joy  to  your  breast. 

Would  you  wander  in  Old  World  lands?     This  you  shall  do: 

I  have  time;  I- have  means;  and  they're  all,  girl,  for  you." 

XXIII. 

Then  she  kissed  him  as  sweetly  as  lover  could  kiss; 
And  she  said: 

"O,  my  father,  not  this,  no,  not  this, 
Though  to  me  as  the  honey  of  Hybla  'twere  dear, 
And  would  realize  longings  of  many  a  year;— 
Not  for  this  shall  I  ask;  not  there  now  would  I  roam, 
But  in  lands  in  the  New  World;  in  lands  nearer  home, 
Although  farther  in  spirit  removed  from  us  now, 
Than  those  where  savage  races  to  savage  gods  bow. ' ' 
Here  she  drew  from  her  bosom  the  letter  from  Maud, 
And  a  blush  tinged  her  cheek  while  she  read  it  aloud. 

XXIV. 

"Dick  alive?        God  be  thanked  !     I'd  clean  given  him  up  !'' 
Exclaimed  old  Farmer  Graves. 

XXV. 

Then  said  Helen : 

' '  The  hope 

Is  a  faint  one  that  he  may  survive :     That  hope  faint 
Is  one  I  could  make  stronger,  if  thither  I  went." 

xxvi. 

The  least  shade  of  a  frown  flitted  quickly  athwart 
His  rough  face;  but  enough  to  strike  chill  to  her  heart. 
"Is  it  right,  Helen,  love,  is  it  squar',  that  the  child 
Of  John  Graves  should  a  thing  do  so  wild? 
You  are  .not  his  .affianced,  you  are  not  his  bride. 
What  excuse  could  you  give  to  the  world  thus  defied?" 


RESOLVE.  ir>3 

XXVII. 

The  reply  that  was  given  was  one  that  alone  ' 

Could  from  woman's  breast  come,  when,  assumptive,  its  own 

Boldly  womanhood  claims,  and  assertingly  stands, 

While  demanding  great  work  for  its  e'er  ready  hands: 

xxvin. 

"  I  should  go,  fearing  not  to  incur  the  world's  scorn; 
I  should  go  in  the  right  whereunto  I  was  born; 
I  should  go  as  a:  woman,  her  mission  to  do; 
I  should  go  as  a  Christian,  to  try  to  prove  true 
To  the  memories  clinging  round  Calvary's  tree; 
I  should  go  as  a  friend,  which  I  glory  to  be; 
But,  in  prouder  capacity  still,  I  should  go 
As  the  daughter  of  honest  John  Graves,  whom  to  know 
Is  to  know  that  a  daughter  of  his  could  not  do 
Anything  to  be  justly  brought  under  review. 
Where  I  went  should  my  father  go:  who,  then,  would  dare 
Call  in  question  my  right  to  appear  anywhere? 
No  times,  seasons,  nor  places,  calls  mercy  her  own, 
And  shut  out  is  her  ministrant  spirit  from  none." 

XXIX. 

There  had  mounted,   meanwhile,  all  the  heightened  Graves 

blood 

To  her  cheek  and  her  forehead,  in  one' crimson  flood; 
And  John  Graves,  looking  on  it,  was  proud  of  his  child, 
And  no  longer  saw  aught  in  her  plan  that  was  wild. 

XXX. 

"Well,  well,  darling;  I  yield.    Your  own  way  you  shall  have, 
And  I'll  help  you  to  rescue  poor  Dick  from  the  grave." 
She  embraced  him,  her  gratitude  warmly  to  prove, 
And  he  thought:   "How  profound  ,for  Dick  Rolfe  is  her  love!" 


164 


HELEN. 


XXXI. 

Thus  we  go  through  the  world,  one  and  all,  self-deceived, 
Or  deceived  by  friends  nearest;  impressions  received 
In  the  heart's  chosen  moments  at  times  telling  lies, 
On  which  feed  misconceptions,  whence  grievings  arise, 
And  the  bitterness  bringing  estrangements  of  heart, 
And  the  friendships  of  golden  years  rending  apart. 
And  all  this  while  intent  is  the  purest  and  best, 
Springing  where  love's  own  benison  blesses  the  breast. 

XXXII. 

O,  .strange  riddle  of  life!  who  that  riddle  hath  read? 
Wondrous  maze  of  the  heart!  who  that  maze  shall  e'er  thread? 
Purblind  weaklings,  how  hug  we  the  vain,  fond  pretense, 
That  we  one  with  another  exchange  confidence!— 
That  we  throw  open  e'er,  for  one  hour  in  time's  tide, 
All  the  soul's  window-blinds,  to  swing  freely  and  wide! 
No!  on  never  a  morning  of  gladness  or  joy, 
Be  the  breath  that  mild  zephyrs  breathe  never  so  coy, 
Play  the  sunlight  around  us  in  beams  ne'er  so  bright, 
Does  the  soul,  when  admitting  the  air  and  the  light, 
Let  the  eyes  of  heart-favorites,  true,  near,  or  dear, 
Through  all  windows  and  into  all  recesses  peer. 


CANTO  THIRD. 


SACRIFICE. 


I. 

There  were  Graveses  in  both  armies,  fighting  for  rights 

As  illusive  as  gleams  of  the  Great  Northern  Lights; 

There  were  Graveses  in  gray;  there  were  Graveses  in  blue; 

There  were  Graveses  uncertain  which  color  was  true, 

Toward  either  maintaining  an  armed  attitude 

Of  neutrality.     So  that  John  Graves  found  his  blood 

Flowing  on  either  side,  and  "betwixt  and  between," 

Very  much  to  his  moral  perplexing,  I  ween. 

Yet  a  patriot  no  less  was  he.     Though  his  line 

Civil  war  rent  asunder,  and  feelings  malign 

Made  of  kindred1  sworn  foes,  still  the  great  heart  he  bore 

In  his  breast  was  unswerved  and  unblinded,and  true  to  the  core 

To  the  nation  as  one,  to  the  flag,  clean  and  free, 

To  the  race,  as  inheriting  one  destiny. 

ii. 

The  close,  warped  definitions  of  patriot  faith, 
Springing  out  of  war's  fetid  and  feverous  breath, 
Are  akin  to  those  born  in  the  schisms  of  creed. 
On  which  theologues  fatten,  in  truth's  sorest  need. 
Blatant  demagogues  ever  on  shibboleths  thrive, 
And  as  oft  to  the  heart  of  true  loyalty  drive 
The  sharp  steel  of  proscription,  as  into  the  heart 
Of  rank  treason.     And  since  it  is  out  of  the  smart 


lf>'»  HELEN. 

Thus  produced — out  of  rancors  and  hurts  festering — 
That  their  profit,  and  vantage,  and  glory  they  wring, 
'Tis  small  matter  to  them  how  results,  that  are  fraught 
With  such  gainfulness  to  them,  are  compassed  or  wrought. 

in. 

And  in  like  way  divinity  dogmatists  stand, 
With  the  red-heated  orthodox  irons,  and  brand 
With,  the  heretic  stigma,  promiscuously, 
All  who  fail  truth  through  their  narrow  lenses  to  see. 
The  fact  that  on  the  smell  of  the  burning  flesh  grows 
The  unsavory  bigotry-tree,  on  whose  boughs 
Hangs  the  fruit  which  they  feed  on,  suffices  for  them  ; 
And  they  reck  not  how  loyal  the  souls  they  condemn 
May  to  God  and  to  right  and  humanity  be, 
If  the  eyes  of  the  world  shall  their  brands  plainly  see. 

IV. 

.   .   .  Strange  and  sad  seemed  it  to  Farmer  Graves,  as  his  way 
From  the  ranks  of  the  Blue  to  the  ranks  of  the  Gray 
WTith  his  daughter  he  made — from  the  old  Stripes  and  Stars, 
All  within  the  same  land,  to  the  new  Stars  and  Bars  ; 
With  white  flag  to  be  passing  from  camps  of  his  kin, 
Through  scenes  which  by  his  childhood's  years  hallowed  had 

been, 

To  camps  where  other  kindred,  in  hostile  array, 
But  awaited  the  signal  to  ravage  and  sla"y. 
.   .   .  Yet,  O,  student  of  history  !  these  are  the  signs 
Of  a  war  internecine,  and  these  the  red  lines 
Such  a  war  through  a  land  of  enlightenment  draws, 
Whatsoe'er  be  its  aims,  whatsoe'er  be  its  cause. 


SACRIFICE.  169 

V. 

In  a  hospital-tent,  in  a  peaceful  spot  placed, 

With  the  choicest  of  nature's  embellishments  graced, 

Where  the  rays  of  the  sun,   through  oak    boughs  stealing 

down. 

Were  upon  a  serene  scene  of  suffering  thrown, 
Beneath  rough-handed,  kind-hearted  soldier-care  lay 
Richard  Rolfe,  with  a  slow  fever  wasting  away. 
Slumber  visited  seldom  his  worn,  shrunken  frame, 
And  brought  little  refreshment  whenever  it  came  ; 
While  with  void,  leaden  eyes,  gazing  e'er  into  space, 
At  a  something  they  seemed  never  able  to  trace, 
He  watched,  waited,  in  mood  uncomplaining  and  mild, 
And  submissive  and  meek  as  a  suppliant  child, 
As  if  fearing  impatience  would  frighten  away 
The  fond  object  his  spirit  still  beckoned  to  stay. 
...  In  the  hush  of  the  sunset  hour,  gliding  as  soft 
As  winged  messengers  bearing  a  freed  soul  aloft, 
And  as  gently  as  dew  falls  when  rose-leaves  it  laves, 
To  that  tent  came  the  presence  of  fair  Helen  Graves. 

VI. 

Bending  down  o'er  the  cot,  she  .breathed  low  but  one  word — 
"  Richard  !  "  — word  the  weak  sufferer's  muffled  ear  heard  ; 
And  the  tympanum  magic  of  sense  took  the  tone, 
And  through  long  silent  mind-chambers  sounded  it  on, 
To  the  throne  isolated  where  sat  the  sad  soul, 
Which  gave  heed,  and  sent  into  the  eyes  dim  and  dull, 
With  their  look  cold  and  death-like,  so  gladsome  a  glance, 
That  it  lighted  with  cheer  the  entire  countenance. 
Though  the  gleam  was  but  transient,  with  flickering  light 
Half  illuming  the  mind  in  delirium's  night, 


170  HELEN. 

Yet  the  angel  of  hope  whispered  soft  of  the  dawn, 
Whose  gray  lines  on  the  spirit's  horizon  were  drawn. 

VII. 

"  It  is  Helen,  I  think,"  spoke  the  low,  feeble  voice  ; 
"  But  I  know  not  as  yet,  and  I  dare  not  rejoice  ; 
For  it  may  be  a  vision.     If  such  it  should  prove, 
I  should  die  of  the  pain  of  regret. 

' '  Do  not  move  ; 

Do  not  leave  me,  I  pray.     Let  me  sleep,  and  get  strength. 
I  am  weary." 

With  sweet,  restful  slumber,  at  length, 
His  exhausted  and  death-shadowed  spirit  was  blessed, 
While  she  watched,  like  a  guardian  angel,  his  rest. 

VIII. 

.   .   .   From  Hygeia's  realm  must  some  deft  fairy  have  crept 

To  his  cot,  and  poured  balm  o'er  his  soul  while  he  slept, 

And  peace  unto  the  fevered  mind-mutiny  spoke  ; 

For  when  once  more  the  fetters  of  slumber  he  broke, 

Reason,  like  an  estranged  friend,  returned  ;  and  eyes  glazed 

And  lack-lustre  no  more  into  vacancy  gazed. 

Slowly  came  to  the  cheeks  something  of  the  old  hue  ; 

And  hope's  signals,  which  had  been  appearing  in  view, 

Told  the  tale  of  life  crossing  in  safety  the  gulf 

That  had  yawned  between  earth  and  the  brave  Richard  Rolfe. 


IX. 

Lying  one  afternoon  on  his  cot,  by  whose  side 
At  her  post  Helen  sat,  and  her  needlework  plied, 
Making  bandages  for  other  wounded,  (her  soul 
Having  been  in  sweet  mercy's  ranks  moved  to  enroll 


SACRIFICE*  171 

For  the  war,)  Richard,  still  from  the  fever's  rage  weak, 
Turned  to  Helen  and  said  : 

x. 

' '  Pardon  me  if  I  speak 

Of  a  matter  that  weighs  on  my  conscience.     To  you, 
My  dear  friend,  I  would  make  a  confession,  and  sue 
For  your  pardon. 

' '  Before  our  brigade  marched  away, 
From  your  album  your  photograph  taking,  one  day, 
In  mere  playfulness,  while  your  attention  was  turned, 
A  brief  while  I  retained  it,  and  ere  'twas  returned, 
A  thought  wrongful  suggested  itself  to  my  mind  ; 
And,  as  conscience  to  yield  to  heart  e'er  is  inclined, 
I  did  with  the  dear  treasure,  all  unknown  to  you; 
What  love's  urgency  only  could  tempt  me  to  do. 

XI. 

"  I  had  wished  for  your  likeness,  but  yet  had  refrained 
From  requesting  its  gift,  lest  you  might  be  constrained 
To  refuse,  leaving  me  a  memento  of  pain 
To  bear  with  me  while  longings  unstilled  should  remain. 
I  believed  that  in  camp  'twould  a  talisman  be, . 
And  I  caused  to  be  painted  upon  ivory 
A  fair  duplicate.     Here  it  is,  bruised,  but  still  true. 
Talisman  has  it  proved.     I  restore  it  to  you. 
I  have  no  right  to  keep  it.     To  me  though  'tis  dear- 
God  knows  how  dear  ! — I  dare  not  withhold  it,  for  fear, 
If  I  failed  restitution  to  make,  that  its  charm 
It  would  lose,  as  an  amulet  shielding  from  harm." 

XII. 

Helen  gazed  at  the  miniature  fixedly  ; 
And  she  said  : 

"  'Tis  a  nattering  likeness  of  me  ; 


172  HELEN. 

And  somewhat  on  his  fancy  the  artist  has  drawn. 
Pray,  by  whom,  Richard,  was  it  so  charmingly  done  ?  " 

XIII. 

"  A  revered  common  friend  of  ours,  Helen,  wrought  this  : 
One  not  given  at  all  to  such  false  flatteries. 
:Twas  Mark  Landis  who  painted  this  portrait  so  well ; 
And  you  know  that  Mark  Landis  truth  only  can  tell, 
Whether  speaking  with  tongue,  or  with  brush,  or  with  pen, 
And  false  colors  wears  not  nor  employs  among  men.". 

XIV. 

She  suppressed  the  emotion  her  breast  that  disturbed  ; 
For  emotions  still  stronger  than  this  she  had  curbed. 
Ah  !  our  Helen  was  learning  the  world's  code  by  heart, 
And  in  life's  profound  drama  perfecting  her  part  ! 

xv. 

Control  having  once  more  of  herself,  Helen  said, 
While  again  on  his  breast  the  bruised  locket  she  laid  : 
"  That  you  had  this  fine  copy  thus  made,  I  am  glad  ; 
I'm  rejoiced  that  when  wounded  the  locket  you  had. 
I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart.     Here  :  take  again        • 
This  by  your  loyal  faith  so  o'erprized  talisman, 
And  continue  to  wear  it  for  me." 

XVI. 

In  her  words 

There  was  that  which  awoke  all  the  resonant  chords 
Of  his  heart,  and  attuned  them  to  music  most  sweet  ; 
And  the  joy  that  he  felt  gave  him  boldness  to  greet 
What  he  hoped  the  sure  harbinger  now  of  that  love 
He  had  looked   for,  and   longed  for,  and   yearned  for,  would 

prove. 

"  Helen,  tell  me  :  can  I  not  discern  in  your  breast 
The  first  dawning  of  love  for  me  ?     O,  to  be  blessed 


SACRIFICE.  1T3 

With  your  heart's  strong  affection   throughout  this   grand 

strife, 
To  my  arm  will  give  strength,  to  my  soul  will  yield  life." 

XVII. 

1 '  Richard  Rolfe, ' '  she  replied,  with  a  voice  that  was  calm 

As  the  tone  of  a  convent-nun  chaunting  a  psalm, 

"  I  am  trying  to  love  you.     Your  love  is  so  strong, 

And  so  deep,  and  so  true,  that  it  can  but  be  long 

Before  I  in  my  weakness  may  hope  to  return 

Its  full  measure.     But  teach  me.     I  live  but  to  learn 

How  to  love  you." 

The  cadence  was  measured  ;  no  change 
In  the  notes  ;  none  were  higher,  none  lower,  in  range  ; 
But  exactly  and  evenly  moduled. 

XVIII. 

O,  God- 
God  of  love  !     Help  this  soul,  passing  under  the  rod  ! 
.   .   .  The  dread  passage  is  made,  and  the  spirit  is  bowed — 
The  strong  spirit,  erstwhile  so  rebellious  and  proud  ! 

XIX. 

"  Helen,  now  could  I  die  with  content  ;  but  I  live 
With  new  life,  with  new  hope,  to  you  proudly  to  give 
Each  emotion  of  heart,  each  conception  of  brain, 
Till  the  One  who  gave  breath  to  me  takes  it  again. 
Seal  with  only  one  kiss  the  sweet  promise  you've  given, 
And  I'll  sleep,  and  in  dreams  get  a  foretaste  of  Heaven." 

xx. 

For  no  more  from  her  asks  he,  nor  wishes  he,  now. 
He  is  satisfied.   .   .   .  Satisfied  ?     How,  tell  me,  how 
Can  he  still  his  heart's  long-lasting,  clamorous  cry, 
With  this  ear-soothing,  soft-sounding,  mild  lullaby  ? 


HELEN. 

-  .  .Yet  this  is  but  a  thousand-fold  tale  that  I  tell, 
Which  is  told  day  by  day  in  the  world  where  we  dwell, 
Of  hearts  clasping  and  hugging  the  shadow  of  love, 
While  the  substance  far  hovers  the  shadow  above. 

XXI. 

O,  L/ove,  where  in  the  universe  wide  can  be  found 

Mystery  as  inscrutable,  wondrous,  profound, 

As  thine  own  ?     On  a  crust,  on  a  morsel,  at  times, 

Thou  canst  feed  ;  then,  again,  not  the  fruits  of  all  climes 

Can  thy  greedy,  insatiate  cravings  appease. 

There  are  hours  when  dark  caves  above  arbors  of  ease 

Thou  preferrest  ;  and  others,  when  there  can  not  bloom 

Plants  enough  thy  luxuriant  seats  to  perfume. 

When  the  mood  is  upon  thee,  if  under  thy  spell 

Thou  hast  one  faithful  heart,  in  content  thou  wilt  dwell 

On  a  lone,  desert  isle  in  the  farthermost  sea  ; 

Anon,  earth's  teeming  realms  must  pay  tribute  to  thee. 

Giving  sometimes  thy  all,  thou  dost  ask,  in  return, 

Nothing  more  than  the  ashes  in  memory's  urn  ; 

Then,  again,  for  a  stiver  expended  by  thee, 

Thou  demandest  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  in  fee  ! 


CANTO  FOURTH, 


DUTY. 


I. 

When  across  the  bleak  moorlands  of  sterile  Regret 
Retrospection's  chill  winds  sweep  where  Joy's  sun  has  set ; 
When  the  wilder  blasts  out  of  the  caves  of  Remorse 
Leave  but  blackened  intention-wrecks  strewn  in  their  course 
When  Hope's  star,  paling  sadly  her  solacing  light, 
L/eaves  the  sky  of  the  future  one  long  arctic  night ; 
When  the  demons  of  Doubt  are  let  loose  on  the  air, 
And  their  whisperings  deepen  the  gloom  of  Despair  ; 
Then  come  flitting,  like  snow-birds  in  winter's  domain, 
The  fond  memories  which  after  heart-storms  remain, 
As  the  relics  of  happiness  once  we  have  known. 
These  still  linger  to  lighten  hours  weary  and  lone  : 
They  are  few,  they  are  faint,  it  may  be  ;  but  yet  they 
Are  our  all,  and  we  never  can  fling  them  away. 

ii. 

To  Mark  L,andis  all  now  that  remained  of  the  past, 
With  its  pleasures  and  promises,  too  bright  to  last, 
With  its  treasures  of  gold  that  he  once  called  his  own, 
Which  he  would  not  have  bartered  for  sceptre  or  crown, 
Was  a  sad,  gentle  memory.     All  else- had  fled, 
And  was  numbered  by  him  with  the  things  that  were  dead. 
This  one  relic  he  cherished,  and  tenderly  pressed 
To  his  vacant,  and  widowed,  and  desolate  breast. 


176  HELEN. 

It  was  sacred  to  him  as  to  monk  crucifix, 
And  he  laid  it  away  in  his  heart's  sacred  pyx. 

in. 

Then,  endued  with  a  courage  that  nothing  could  daunt, 
And  a  nerve  that  an  Indian  warrior  might  vaunt, 
Mark  went  forth  in  the  world  ;  looked  it  straight  in  the  eye  ; 
Set  his  face  to  the  breeze,  with  a  soul  to  defy 
Wind  and  storm  ;  courted  trouble,  his  heart  to  enure  ; 
And  gained  spirit  to  struggle,  and  strength  to  endure. 

IV. 

So  the  world  it  went  on,  and  its  ranks  closed  again, 

As  if  never  had  been  trace  of  anguish  or  pain  ; 

As  if  never  in  heart  had  a  deep  chasm  yawned  ; 

As  if  ne'er  had  a  hope  died  the  morn  when  it  dawned  : 

E'en  as  in  a  great  battle  the  ranks  close  again, 

After  clearing  the  field  of  the  wounded  and  slain, 

Who  are  missed  not,  or,  missed,  only  serve  to  prolong 

Some  lone  evening's  tale,  or  make  sad  some  home  song  ; — 

E'en  as  in  the  great  war,  which  was  raging  apace, 

Was  the  morrow  e'er  ready  with  men  to  replace 

Those  who  fell  in  the  conflict  to-day;  and  the  word 

"  Close  the  ranks  !"  was  the  order  that  ever  was  heard. 

'Tis  the  order  that  rings  round  the  world  in  all  strife  ; 

'Tis  the  countersign  fixed  in  the  battle  of  life. 

v. 

•  Yea,  the  war  raged  apace — raged  apace  and  amain. 
Men  like  cattle,  like  sheep  for  the  shambles,  were  slain. 
From  the  Lakes  all  the  way  to  the  Gulf,  but  one  thought 
Ruled  men's  minds  ;   from  the  plains  to  the  seaboard  they 

fought; 

And  the  God  of  the  just  on  each  side  was  implored 
To  whet  i».its  behalf  His  avenging,  swift  sword, 


DUTY.  17? 

While  from  altars  dyed  red  by  the  blood  of  the  slain 
He  was  asked  to  spread  broadcast  the  spirit  of  Cain. 

VI. 

.   .   .  One  day,  sitting  and  reading  the  news  from  the  war, — 

Reading  listlessly,  as  one  might  read  from  afar 

The  accounts  of  a  feud  'twixt  a  red  and  black  race 

In  earth's  uttermost  corner, — Mark  L,andis's  face 

Was  suffused  with  a  scarlet  flush,  suddenly  brought 

By  the  rush  through  his  mind  of  a  sharp,  piercing  thought, 

At  perusing  a  call  by  the  Government  made 

For  enlistments  of  troops  in  a  new-formed  brigade. 

vii. 

The  imperiled  republic  was  in  sorest  need; 
She  had  poured  her  best  blood  war's  wild  fury  to  feed; 
And  now  fresh  hecatombs  were  demanded  to  sate 
The  unquenchable  thirst  of  the  Moloch  of  hate  : 
There  were  lacking  more  souls  to  be  offered  to  fill 
The  grim  measure  of  sacrifice  asked  of  her  still. 

VIII. 

This  the  thought  that  stung  L,andis  with  sting  keen  and  deep, 

And  aroused  him  with  smiting  of  Conscience's  whip  : 

"  What  a  base,  what  a  recreant  spirit  have  I, 

To  sit  thus  in  a  selfish  security  by, 

While  the  half  of  a  world  is  in  arms!     She  has  proved 

Grandly  true  while  she  has  amidst  suffering  moved, 

Like  a  ministering  angel  from  Heaven  sent  down, 

And  my  duty  through  noble  example  thus  shown  : 

I^et  me  now  do  that  duty  as  honor  shall  move, 

And  as  she  from  her  lofty  height  can  but  approve. 

What  though  war  to  my  spirit  abhorrent  may  be  ? 

'Tis  no  patriot's  part  such  a  conflict  to  flee, 


1«0  HELEN. 

WThile  in  peril  the  nation's  life  lies.     My  full  share 
Of  the  burden  fate  lays  on  my  land  let  me  bear." 

IX. 

With  a  man  like  Mark  L,andis,  to  form  a  resolve 
Was  to  act,  and  to  make  all  great  efforts  revolve 
Round  one  dominant  purpose.     His  soul  was  inspired 
With  his  new  resolution  ;  his  bosom  was  fired 
With  the  ardor  of  noble  performance.     An  hour 
Scarce  had  passed  before  he  was  enrolled  for  the  war. 

x. 

The  enlistment  of  L,andis  stirred  new  life  among 
The  youth  of  the  vicinity,  and  'twas  not  long 
From  the  day  that  his  patriot  decision  was  made, 
he  headed  a  company  in  the  brigade. 


CANTO    FIFTH, 


RECOGNITION. 


I. 
Once  more,  night  on  the  battle-field. 

There  has  been  won 

A  great  victory.     Blood  in  dark  torrents  has  run. 
Hearts  by  thousands  have  been  since  the  morn  stilled  for  aye. 
Homes  unnumbered  in  anguish  proclaim  that  the  day 
Is  replete  with  rare  glory. 

But  cannon  no  more 

At  this  hour  shake  the  field  with  their  death-speaking  roar, 
And  the  shouts  of  the  victors  no  longer  ring  forth, 
To  accompany  souls  taking  last  leave  of  earth  ; 
For  sweet  mercy  rules  now,  and  the  ambulance  corps 
Gathers  grain  for  the  garner  from  war's  threshing-floor  ; 
While  the  surgeons  and  nurses,  by  torches  revealed, 
Dress  such  wounds  as  need  instant  relief  on  the  field. 

n. 

Here,  a  surgeon  discovers  a  man  lying  prone, 
In  a  pool  of  blood  even  he  shrinks  to  look  on. 

in. 

"  My  poor  fellow  !     This  was  a  severe  shot,  indeed  ! 
In  the  thigh  !     Fearful  wounds,  those  of  this  kind,  to  bleed  ! 
It  was  done  by  a  shell :     Ugly  gashes  they  make  ! 
.   .   .  No,  ma'am,  no  !  [to  a  nurse.]     It  won't  do  yet  to  take 


180  HELEN. 

This  man  into  the  ambulance  !     Too  much  blood  flows. 
There's  an  artery  severed.     Tied  once  ?     So  it  shows  ; 
And  done  poorly,  too  ! 

"  Madam,  please  hold  up  his  head  : 
He  is  fainting,  I  fear,  which  will  surely  be  bad 
For  the  case. 

"  Now,  my  man,  if  you  will  but  be  brave, 
By  effecting  this  ligature    I'll  try  to  save 
Your  most  badly  torn  limb,  and  your  life  (whose  warm  tide. 
If  I  do  not  mistake,  ebbs  now  fast),  [which  aside 
To  the  nurse  was  observed.]  .   .   .  You're  a  captain,  I  see, 
And  quite  young,  too. 

..."  What  !  ...  Ah  !  So  I  feared  it 
would  be  ! 

You've  no  stomach  for  blood,  ma'am  ;  that's  plain  to  be  seen. 
This  is  far  too  rough  work  for  one  raised  as  you've  been." 

IV. 

This  remark  of  the  surgeon's  was  caused  by  a  cry 
That  escaped  from  the  nurse,  as  a  torchlight  passed  by, 
And  upon  the  dark,  powder-grimed  face  threw  its  glare — 
The  brave  face  she  was  holding  so  tenderly  there. 
No  sound  else  passed  her  lips. 

To  her  task  in  the  dark 
She  bent,  causing  the  surgeon  no  further  remark. 

v. 

Meanwhile  uttered  the  sufferer  no  moan  nor  cry, 
And  he  only  evinced  his  intense  agony, 
When  the  surgeon  felt  round  among  tendons  and  cords, 
(Where  his  fingers  seemed  clubs  and  his  instruments  swords,) 
By  occasional  wincings  and  cringings  of  nerve, 
As  the  good  man  proceeded  to  cut  and  to  carve, 


S5 


50     £ 


ao   .2 

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_  a> 


"S  •» 


RECOGNITION.  183 

And  put  into  some  sort  of  presentable  shape 

The  limb  mangled  and  haggled  by  shrapnel  and  grape. 

VI. 

"  And  now,  Madam,"  the  surgeon  said,  "  if  I  may  ask 

That  you  ride  in  the  ambulance  with  me,  and  task 

Your  assistance  still  further  in  this  incident, 

We'll  ourselves  take  this  man  to  the  hospital-tent ; 

For  I  tell  you  that  only  with  greatest  of  care, 

(And  perhaps,  I  should  add,  with  the  aid  of  strong  prayer,) 

Can  the  already  flickering  flame  of  his  breath 

Be  redeemed  from  extinguishment  speedy  in  death." 

VII. 

In  tones  furtively  whispered  these  last  words  were  said 
In  the  ear  of  the  nurse,  in  the  brief  pauses  made 
In  the  surgeon's  glib  talk,  while  arranging  a  place 
For  the  man  in  the  ambulance.     Easy  to  trace, 
'Midst  professional  phrases  in  roughish  garb  dressed, 
Was  the  deepened  anxiety  thrilling  his  breast. 

VIII. 

When  his  patient  was  by  his  arms  ready  and  stout 
In  the  woe-laden  vehicle  placed,  and  the  route 
To  the  hospital  taken,  the  surgeon  went  on 
With  his  chat,  till  the  head  of  the  Captain  bent  down, 
As  if  fled  was  the  monarch  of  life  from  his  seat- 
Bent  down  limp  on  his  breast,  like  a  reaped  spear  of  wheat. 

IX. 

"  This  is  something  I  dreaded,"  the  surgeon  said,  pained 
Beyond  power  of  concealment.     "  His  system  was  strained 
To  a  tension  too  great  for  "e'en  his  wondrous  nerve, 
And  the  task  is  now  desperate  life  to  conserve. 


184  HELEN. 

He   has  swooned,   you  perceive,  Ma'am,   from  sheer   loss   of 

blood. 

.   .   .  But  you  also  appear  growing  weaker  !     You've  stood 
The  scene  bravely  thus  far:  bear  it  out!     Take  a  drop 
From  this  flask:  it  is  whisky — the  best.     It  keeps  up 
Sinking  spirits  when  nothing  else  will.     It  is  not 
Of  the  sort  which  the  Government  vilely  deals  out 
Through  its  own  commissariat. 

.   .   .   "No?     Well,  'tis  true, 
It  is  not  just  the  drink  for  a  lady  like  you  ; 
But  war  hardens  us  all  to  the  roughest  of  things  ; 
And  God  knows  that  for  all  of  the  justice  it  brings, 
There's  a  terrible  offset  of  ill. 

' '  I  was  wrong 

To  impose  such  a  task  upon  you.     Being  strong, 
Stout,  and  tough,  I  forget  still  that  others  are  weak. 

x. 
.   .   .    "We're   approaching    the    tent:    it  is    time!   .   .   .   You 

don't  speak! 
.   .   .  O,  God!     She,  too,  has  fainted  !     Poor  child  !     What  a 

scene, 

Sandwiched  thus  the  dark  horrors  of  warfare  between  !— 
His  head  laid  in  her  lap,  and  her  head  on  his  breast! 
They  appear  like  fond  lovers,  in  love's  blissful  rest; — 
And  the  two  total  strangers  ! 

XI. 

"  Here,  Sergeant  !     Give  aid  ! 
I've  two  persons  as  lifeless  as  if  they  were  dead. 
Handle  tenderly  this  so  strange  pair  that  you  see  ! 
From  depletion  of  blood  he  has  fainted,  and  she 
From  exhaustion:  that's  all. 


RECOGNITION.  185 

"  But,  my  man,  have  a  care  ! 
Do  not  be  quite  so  rough  !   .   .   .  Take  him  first.     Gently  ! 

.  .   .  There  ! 

To  her  tent,  now,  drive  quickly,  the  headquarters  near. 
Don't  you  see?     She's  the  wife  of  our  new  Brigadier  !" 


CANTO  SIXTH. 


PRAYER. 


I. 

O,  Religion  !     Though  history's  just  muse  imputes 

The  worst  wars  of  the  nations  to  priestly  disputes  ; 

Yet,  when  wounding  and  death  come  along  in  their  train, 

From  their  blood-bearing  issues  thou  dost  not  abstain. 

Thou  art  ready  to  bind,  and  to  heal,  and  to  soothe, 

The  bruised  body  to  balm,  or  the  pillow  to  smoothe. 

Thy  bright  presence  lends  ever  assuagement  to  pain, 

And  the  color  brings  back  to  the  wan  cheek  again  ; 

Or,  when  clouds,  hanging  heavy  and  stifling  the  breath, 

Show  the  Valley  where  hovers  the  Shadow  of  Death, 

There,  with  faith-inscribed  banner,  thy  beaming  form  stands, 

Pointing  ' '  over  the  river' '  to  radiant  lands, 

Where  there  never  is  heard  war's  tumultuous  blare  ; 

Where  the  smoke  of  the  battle  swells  not  on  the  air  ; 

\Vhere  no  morning  drum  beats,  and  no  reveille  calls  ; 

Where  no  hero  is  lost,  and  no  champion  falls  ; 

Where  the  bugle  sounds  never  to  ride  on  the  charge; 

Where  pale  cowardice  haunts  not  the  field's  safer  marge; 

Where  no  long  marches  lie  through  the  summer's  hot  dust, 

Nor  the  drear  rains  of  autumn,  nor  winter's  harsh  frost; 

Where  no  picket  looks  far  with  strained  eyes  for  the  foe; 

Where  no  signal-lights  gleam,  and  no  bivouac-fires  glow; 


PRAYER.  18? 

Where  the  sharpshooter  makes  not  his  target  the  breast 
Of  the  tallest,  the  proudest,  the  bravest,  the  best; 
Where  no  camp-fevers,  lurking  in  mists  from  the  grave, 
Shame  the  sword  as  they  feed  on  the  breath  of  the  brave. 

ii. 

Beneath  yon  yellow  flag*  the  sharp  rifle  barks  not. 
And  no  cannon's  throat  there  belches  forth  screaming  shot. 
'Tis  the  Hospital  Flag:  let  its  color  be  blest, 
And  on  all  'neath  its  folds  let  a  benison  rest! 
Hang  back  all  of  your  standards,  with  heraldry  proud, 
In  whose  quarterings  history's  memories  crowd, 
Through  stained  centuries  running  back  into  the  night 
Of  barbaric  dominion  of  might  over  right: 
Though  'neath  each  have  the  brave  with  the  brave  greatly 

vied, 

With  the  blood  of  the  peoples  are  all  of  them  dyed  ! 
Bring  the  Hospital  Flag  to  the  farthermost  front, 
And  baptize  it  in  sacred  Humanity's  font, 
With  the  name,  which  will  live  while  it  graces  the  air, 
Of  the  Banner  of  Mercy.     Its  cross  let  us  wear 
As  our  civilization's  best  symbol  and  sign — 
As  the  mark  of  its  touching,  for  once,  the  divine. 

in. 

In  the  quaint  convent-garb  of  her  order,  there  bent 
O'er  a  wounded  man's  cot,  in  the  hospital-tent, 
A  mild  Sister  of  Mercy. 


"On  the  8th  of  August,  1884,  iu  General  Order  No.  90,  issued  by  di- 
rection of  the  War  Department  of  the  United  States,  the  Hospital  Flag, 
which  had  hitherto  been  a  plain  yellow  one,  was  changed  to  a  white  flag 
with  a  red  cross  in  the  centre.  This  was  done  iu  accordance  with  Art. 
VII  of  the  Convention  between  the  United  States  and  the  other  civilized 
powers  of  the  world,  held  in  Geneva,  Switzerland,  a  few  weeks  prior  to 
the  issuance  of  the  order. 


188  HELKX. 

The  patient  still  slept; 

But  not  strong  was  his  breathing.     Anxiety  crept 
O'er  the  face  of  the  nun,  as  she  noted  how  faint 
Were  the  slow  respirations,  which  thus  came  and  went, 
As  if  balancing  whether  'twere  better  to  seek 
To  keep  life  in  the  embers,  so  low  and  so  weak, 
Or  to  yield  up  the  struggle  that  wearied  the  breast, 
And  sink  into  the  grave's  undisturbed,  dreamless  rest. 

IV. 

"  Holy  Mary,  be  near!"  the  nun  ministrant  prayed; 
"  Be  still  near;  for  a  spirit  lies  deep  in  earth's  shade. 
Intercede,  Virgin  Mother,  with  Him  thou  didst  bear; 
For  death-whisperings  float  on  the  breath  of  the  air!" 

V. 

Slumber's  delicate  veil-film  was  lifted  at  length, 
And  the  eyelids  made  show  of  asserting  their  strength; 
But,  fatigued  with  the  task,  after  casting  one  look 
At  the  face  bending  o'er  them,  the  effort  forsook. 
The  sweet  nun  made  no  sign,  save  a  peace-speaking  smile, 
And  the  sleeper  lay  voiceless  and  moveless  the  while. 

VI. 

But  he  slept  not. 

The  soul,  of  the  mind  and  the  sense 
Taking  counsel,  was  weighing  the  blent  evidence, 
As  to  which  of  the  shores  of  the  death-severed  sea 
It  was  now  resting  on. 

"  Am  I  not  at  last  free?" 

Thus  it  queried  ;  "  and  have  I  not  reached  Paradise? 
And  is  not  this  an  angel  attendant? 

"  Earth's  guise, 

And  its  trappings,  I  thought  were  by  me  laid  aside 
For  time's  durance.     I  thought,  and  I  wished,  sense  had  died. 


PRAYER.  189 

And  the  face  now  bent  o'er  me,  so  placid,  serene, 
Is  a  face  such  as  only  in  visions  I've  seen. 
Those  calm,  passionless  features,  how  can  they  belong 
To  a  spirit  not  freed  from  earth's  turbulent  throng?" 

VII. 

Thus  the  soul  of  the  intellect  queried.     And  then, 
Strength  collecting,  the  latter  resumed  the  dim  train 
Of  reflection,  back  wandering  to  the  dark  field 
Where  life's  pulsings  in  silence  had  seemed  to  be  sealed. 

vni. 

"Ah!    That  strange, wild  scene,  yonder,  in  shadows  of  night — 
Shadows  cheered  by  a  presence  assuagingly  bright, — 
I  had  thought  that  that  closed  with  the  dawning  of  morn 
In  eternity,  whither  my  spirit  seemed  borne 
Upon  pinions  of  mercy  and  love. 

' '  For  so  dense 

Was  the  gathering  darkness  that  curtained  the  sense, 
That  the  world  was  shut  out  from  me — all,  save  the  light 
From  those  dark,  lustrous  eyes  which  beamed   down  on  my 

sight; 

And  I  gazed  far,  far  into  their  depths,  and  saw  there 
Something  superterrestrial,  heavenly  fair, 
WThich  then  led  me  so  gently,  so  softly  from  life, 
That  I  parted  with  joy  from  its  pain  and  its  strife; 
And  that  luminous  presence  still  lighted  my  soul, 
Breaking  loose  from  the  shackles  of  sentient  control, 
Through  the  gathering  mist,  and  the  gloom,  till  the  breath 
Became  tideless  and  still.     And  I  thought  that  was  death." 

IX. 

Then  the  mind  was  at  length  with  these  questionings  worn, 
And  again  into  regions  of  Slumberland  borne. 


190  HELEN. 

X. 

Came  the  surgeon. 

"  Well,  Sister!  you're  likely  to  find 

Work  enough  in  the  new  field  to  which  you're  assigned," 
He  began,  in  his  usual  garrulous  mood. 
"  By  what  name  shall  I  call  you,  please?" 

"  Sister  Gertrude." 

"  By  the  way,  a  young  officer,  late  on  last  night, 
Was  brought  hither  in  rather  a  dangerous  plight, 
With  a  very  unpromising  femoral  wound, 
Who,  while  riding  with  me  in  the  ambulance,  swooned. 
Will  you  please  to  tell  me  how  does  that  case  progress?" 
"  He  lies  yonder,  and  sleeps." 

' '  Then  the  danger  is  less. 
Has  delirium  shown?" 

1 '  Not  as  yet,  sir.     Too  weak 
Without  aid  to  move,  making  no  effort  to  speak, 
He  lies  hovering — 

XI. 

"  'Twixt  the  two  worlds.     That  I  know. 
'Tis  a  toss-up  which  wins. 

.   .   .    "Pardon,  Sister;  I  show 
Less  of  heart  and  of  sympathy,  possibly,  than 
You  may  think  I  should  feel.     But  I  take  in  this  man 
A  strange  interest,  and  I  most  earnestly  hope 
We  may  save  him.     If  only  his  courage  keeps  up, 
And  that  ugly  and  dreaded  death-fellow,  gangrene, 
Our  profession's  bete  noir,  does  not  yet  supervene, 
We  can  save  him,  I  think. 

' '  Before  taking  a  look 
At  him,  (which  I  am  anxious  to  do,  for  with  smoke 


PRAYER.  191 

Was  his  face  blackened  so,  with  his  head  turned  away, 
And  so  dark  was  the  night,  that  one  hardly  could  say 
If  he  was  white  or  black,)  there's  a  message  I  bear, 
I'll  deliver. 

"  Worn  down  by  exposure,  night  air, 
And  miasma,  the  brave  lady  who,  on  the  field, 
Helped  to  dress  this  man's  wound,  has  been  forced  now  to 

yield 

To  a  raging  camp-fever,  and  bids  me  ask  you 
All  that  human  care  can  for  this  patient  to  do, 
And  in  time  and  eternity  her  gratitude 
WTill  be  yours." 

XII. 

"  I  will  do  so,"  said  Sister  Gertrude  ; 
"  But  has  that  gentle  lady  the  Virgin  implored 
To  petition  the  throne  of  her  Son  and  our  Lord 
For  this  .soul?     For  such  aid  is  required." 

XIII. 

"  I  can't  say, 

Tender  Sister,  through  whom  she's  accustomed  to  pray," 
Said  the  surgeon,  (who,  let  it  be  frankly  confessed, 
Buttoned  less  of  religion  than  heart  'neath  his  vest;) 
*'  But  I'll  swear  that  she  prays  to  some  one;  and  I'll  lay 
A  large  wager  no  prayer  from  her  heart  goes  astray." 

XIV. 

Honest  surgeon,  your  plainness  is  gold.     Your  rough  phrase 

A  great  truth  for  this  age,  and  all  ages,  conveys. 

Let  theologists  wrangle  o'er  dogmas  and  creeds: 

How  discern  they,  how  gauge  they,  the  soul's  sorest  needs? 

Let  the  nun  through  the  Virgin  her  pleadings  put  forth; 

Let  the  other  her  prayers  without  aid  send  from  earth: 


192 


HELEN. 


If  they  both  start  in  pureiiess  of  heart,  they  will  each 
The  Great  White  Throne  above  with  all  certainty  reach. 
This  I  say,  nothing  doubting,  by  virtue  of  faith 
Planted  deep  in  my  soul  by  the  Author  of  breath- 
Faith  not  learned  in  the  halls  of  divinity  schools, 
But  transcending  all  creeds  and  all  dogmatic  rules. 

xv. 

The  warm  heart  of  the  world,  beating  true,  through  all  time, 
To  the  heart  of  the  victim  of  Calvary's  crime, 
Bids  me  speak  for  the  right  of  the  soul  to  seek  Heaven 
In  the  ways  unto  it  through  its  mother-faith  given, — 
Bids  me  claim  that  the  heart  may  send  upward  its  plaint 
Through  the  sanctified  soul  of  some  favorite  saint, 
Or  through  that  of  the  mother  the  stable  who  graced; 
Or  yet  through  the  best  One,  who  unmurmuring  faced 
All  the  terrors  of  death  and  all  demons  of  hell, 
And  by  love's  magic  power  broke  evil's  dark  spell; 
Or,  sufficiently  strengthened  in  spirit  and  grace, 
Commune  with  great  Jehovah  unveiled,  face  to  face. 
Heaven's  language  is  multitongued,  and  o'er  the  world, 
Wheresoe'er  be  our  risen  Lord's  banner  unfurled, 
The  glad  gift  pentecostal  its  blessings  extends, 
And  to  tongues  weak  and  souls  weak  its  loving  aid  lends. 

XVI. 

Thus  the  soul,  be  it  lowly,  or  ranked  with  the  proud, 
With  this  privilege  precious  is  ever  endowed. 
Let  it  pray  in  a  tongue  that  is  lost  in  the  ages, 
Or  pray  in  the  language  of  bards  or  of  sages; 
In  speech  that  is  dainty,  aesthetic,  and  fair, 
Grown  in  culture  and  taste,  culled  with  delicate  care; 
Or  in  dialects  sprung  from  the  slums  of  to-day, 
Where  humanity's  self  breathes  the  breath  of  decay; 


PRAYER.  103 

• 

Let  it  pray  in  short  form,  or  in  long  form,  or  none; 
Let  it  pray  in  coat,  kilt,  blouse,  cloak,  surplice,  or  gown: 
Let  the  heart  but  be  Godward  turned,  and  God  will  hear, 
Though  the  plea  meet  approval  of  no  human  ear. 

XVII. 

For  God  hears  not  as  man  hears, — thrice  blessed  the  thought! 

If  He  did,  with  what  ruin  our  worship  were  wrought! 

Should  the  angel  of  justice  e'er  critical  grow, 

And  test  all  of  the  prayers  that  ascend  from  below 

By  the  pure  adoration  up  there  recognized, 

And  admit  none  but  after  that  standard  revised; — 

If  for  praj-ers  out  of  place,  out  of  taste,  out  of  tense; 

If  for  prayers  ill  constructed,  and  wanting  in  sense; 

If  for  prayers  sacrilegious  in  spirit  and  tone; 

If  for  prayers  in  which  self  is  unshrinkingly  shown; 

If  for  prayers  where  the  Christ  is  most  deftly  belied, 

Though  by  synod,  or  council,  or  church  ratified; 

If  for  prayers  which  the  veriest  pagan  would  shame; 

If  for  prayers  that  are'Christian-like  only  in  name; — 

If,  up  yonder,  I  say,  the  lines  closely  were  drawn, 

(The  which,  praised  be  all  saints,  we  know  ne'er  will  be  done,) 

And  yon  angel  each  soul  should  to  strict  account  call 

For  its  prayer-deficits,  Heaven  pity  us  all! 

XVIII. 

Sec  the  child  at  the  side  of  its  mother  kneel  down, 
And  climb  up  to  its  God  through  the  folds  of  her  gown! 
Mark  the  weak,  plaintive  breath  of  the  soul-bud  ascend, 
Where  divine  love  and  mother-love  mingle  and  blend! 
Who  shall  question  the  fact  that  its  prayers  are  all  heard, 
Though  its  heart  in  the  main  is  by  mother-love  stirred? 
O,  divinity  doctors,  when  will  ye  discern, 
That  like  children  the  peoples  the  God-love  must  learn, 


194  HELEN. 

And  that  yet  in  its  childhood  humanity  kneels 

At  the  feet  of  the  good  mother  Wisdom,  and  feels 

Its  slow  way  o'er  the  path  by  Immanuel  trod — 

Its  slow  way,  through  that  mother,  to  Him,  and  to  God? 

XIX. 

.   .   .  For  the  surgeon  the  nun  through  the  cots  led  the  way 
To  where,  still  wrapped  in  slumber,  the  pale  patient  lay. 

xx. 

One  look  only  the  old  surgeon  cast  at  the  cot, 
And  intense  surprise  into  expression  was  wrought. 

XXI. 

"What!     Mark  Landis!     My  dear  lad!     My  favorite!     You 
Lying  here  where  death's  presence  lurks  closely  in  view? 
And  yet  I  to  have  handled  you  thus  on  the  field, 
With  ne'er  once  your  identity  to  me  revealed! 
Well,  well,  Sister!     I  am  getting  old,  sure  enough, — 
Old  and  childish,  as  well  as  dull,  clumsy,  and  rough! 
He  breathes  faintly;  but  there  is  no  death  in  that  sleep! 
He  will  live!     If  the  besom  of  war  does  not  sweep 
His  white  life  from  the  earth  in  some  battle's  red  tide, 
He  will  win  a  name  which  among  men  shall  abide." 

XXII. 

Then  the  surgeon  mused  thus,  as  with  Sister  Gertrude, 

On  the  calm  sleeper  gazing,  in  silence  he  stood: 

"  My  dream  faded  away,  like  all  visions  and  dreams! 

In  his  life  my  girl  no  beauty  saw,  and,  it  seems, 

None  in  hers  he;  and  I  as  his  lover  was  left. 

And  I  do  love  you,  boy,  though  of  that  hope  bereft! 

Even  old  men  like  me  must  have  something  to  love 

That  is  beautiful,  life's  work-day  moiling  above; 

And  you're  all  that  remains  to  my  dried  up  old  heart, 

My  young  Raphael,  sent  to  give  new  life  to  art!" 


PRAYER.  195 

XXIII. 

The  good  surgeon  from  waking  the  sleeper  refrained, 
Nor  until  his  deep  slumbers  were  broken  remained; 
But  went  on  to  his  duties,  'mid  sickness  and  pain, 
With  a  heart  as  unselfish  as  rugged  in  grain. 


XXIV. 

Dark-brown  eyes,  sunk  and  hollow;  dark  hair,  flowing  wide; 
Cheeks,  once  flushed,  shrunk   and  sallow;  form  wasted,  lips 

dried : 

Is  this  she  who  went  from  her  fair  prairie-home  forth, 
At  stern  duty's  demand,  to  give*  sacrifice  worth, 
To  give  purpose  to  effort,  and  strength  to  resolve, 
And  one  problem  in  human  existence  to  solve? 

XXV. 

"  Ah!     So  soon  in  the  struggle  o'ercome  with  defeat! 

So  soon  forced  to  effect  a  disastrous  retreat! 

All  my  brave  resolutions,  my  firmness,  my  strength, 

Have  wrought  only  this  end,  have  reached  but  to  this  length! 

And  dared  had  I  to  think,  if  by  chance  we  should  meet, 

I  could  look  in  his  face,  and  his  soul  therein  greet, 

And  then  go  on  my  way,  to  the  world  speaking  fair, 

And  a  look  of  serenest  impassiveness  wear, 

While  no  shrinking  nor  shambling  my  heart  should  betray: 

Yet  the  first  glance  wrought  wreck,  and — I  fell  by  the  way! 

XXVI. 

"  In  the  night,  in  the  dark,  by  the  torches'  red  glare, 

O,  Mark  Landis,  why  should  ruthless  fate  bring  you  there? 


19(5  HELEN. 

Out  of  blood,  out  of  danger,  in  deep  agony, 
You  there  came,  in  the  shadows,  with  greeting  to  me! 
O,  the  anguish  of  soul!     O,  the  tempting  of  heart! 
Each  black  fiend  from  perdition  seemed  plying  his  art. 
How  so  long  I  endured  it,  I  know  not — I  know 
Only  that  when  weak  nature  gave  way,  I  bowed  low, 
Bowed  my  head,  and  sank  down  on  his  breast! 

' '  Blessed  Name, 

Christ  all-merciful,  to  whom  the  tempter  once  came, 
Pity,  pardon,  and  aid!     I  am  weak,  I  am  frail! 
Thou  great  Heart  of  Compassion,  O,  let  me  not  fail! 

XXVII. 

"  In  late  days  I  had  wished,  I  had  cherished  the  thought, 

That  the  motherhood-wThisperings  tenderly  brought 

To  the  ear  of  my  heart  might  call  love  into  life; 

Might  speak  hope  to  the  breast;  might  sound  truce  to  the 

strife. 
Even  these  have  been  vain! 

XXVIII. 

.  '.   .    "Will  he  die? 

' '  At  the  thought 

Runs  a  shudder  through  all  my  poor  heart.     He  must  not! 
Living,  he  is  a  burden  fate  lays  on  my  soul, 
And  I've  but  to  accept  without  murmur  my  dole; 
But,  if  dead,  his  untombed,  martyr-spirit  would  be 
Ever  present,  a  witness  accusing  to  me," 

XXIX. 

Then  she  breathed  this  strong  prayer: 

"  O,  eternal  Lord  God, 

Who  didst  bring  from  dark  chaos  the  sweet,  blooming  sod, 
And  didst  plant  in  bright  Eden  all  things  that  were  fair, 
And  then  made  in  thine  image  the  man  to  rule  there; 


PRAYER.  197 

Take  them  into  thy  keeping  this  image  of  thine — 
On  no  fairer  did  ever  thy  gladsome  sun  shine; 
Do  not  let  him  die  now;  earth  hath  need  of  such  men! 
They  are  few;  the}-  are  kings  in  humanity's  reign. 
Raise  him  up  to  go  out  in  the  glory  of  youth, 
And  proclaim  and  be  witness  to  life's  golden  truth! 
Raise  him  up  to  prove  faithful  to  aims  of  his  soul; 
Raise  him  up  to  show  forth,  as  years  onward  shall  roll,— 
Be  they  few,  be  they  man}-  for  him, — that  one  heart, 
One  at  least,  in  this  wide  world,  hath  no  lot  nor  part 
In  earth's  greed;  that  one  soul  can  in  strength  rise  above 
The  all-grasping,  all-hoarding,  hard  self-gain  of  love." 

XXX. 

Thus  she  prayed,  and  she  afterward  mused: 

"  And  then, 

Must  I  go  through  the  ordeal — meet  him  again? 
I  do  thank  thee,  my  Lord,  that  my  illness  is  great; 
For  it  keeps  me  away  from  the  tortures  that  wait 
For  me  yonder,  where,  if  there  shall  nursing  hands  fail, 
Mine  must  not  be  withheld,  though  my  weak  spirit  quail, — 
Yonder,  where  calmly,  greatly  enduring,  he  lies, 
Where  in  anguish  of  body,  it  may  be,  he  dies!" 

XXXI. 

God  have  pity  upon  her!     God  pity  all  who, . 

With  such  crosses  as  hers,  pass  this  weary  world  through! 

XXXII. 

O,  ye  Jews  of  the  heart's  realm,  take  heed  how  ye  prove 

Recreant  to  the  Heaven -owned  spirit  of  love! 

If  on  Golgotha  ye  crucify  it  to-day, 

On  the  third  day  the  stone  from  its  tomb  rolled  away 

Shall  be  found,  and  the  new-risen,  recognized  lord, 

Once  transfigured,  step  forth,  and  be  thenceforth  adored! 


FAITH. 


I. 

Slowly  faded  the  rays  of  an  autumnal  sun, 

And  a  soft  twilight  left,  in  whose  shade  sat  the  nun, 

Her  pale  face  with  anxiety  less  clouded  o'er 

Than  at  any  hour  in  her  close  watching  before; 

For,  though  weak  from  his  wounds'  fevered  wasting  and  wear, 

Mark  was  gaining  beneath  her  assiduous  care. 

While  submissive  his  spirit,  and  docile  his  mood, 

It  yet  taxed  all  the  efforts  of  Sister  Gertrude, 

His  too  restive  mind's  bent  toward  expression  to  curb, 

And  to  guard  it  from  all  that  might  tend  to  disturb 

The  so  much  needed  calmness  of  nerve  and  of  brain, 

Which  the  surgeon  had  urged  her  to  seek  to  maintain. 

ii. 

"Sister,"  thus  Mark  persisted,  "  while  watching  you  move 
In  your  rounds  here,  impelled  by  the  spirit  of  love, 
Strange  reflections  my  mind  have  been  wandering  through." 

in. 

"  The  mind  should  not  be  tasked  by  such  troublous  review," 
Urged  the  Sister;  "  there  can  be  no  rest  while  the  thought 
Is  with  burdened  humanity's  problems  o'erwrought." 

IV. 

Still  unsatisfied,  L,andis  continued,  in  strain 
Of  intensity  heightened  by  tension  of  brain: 


FAITH.  199 

' '  It  were  easier,  Sister,  to  give  ample  vent 
To  my  close-crowding  thoughts,  than  attempt  their  restraint. 
An  idea  your  cherished  faith's  symbols  suggest 
Has  with  emphasis  strong  on  my  mind  been  impressed: 
Of  what  prejudice  are  we  the  creatures,  and  how 
Warps  antipathy  all  of  our  lives!" 

v. 

' '  Our  minds  bow 

'Neath  the  yoke  of  inherited  bias,"  explained 
Sister  Gertrude,  who  would  with  her  charge  have  refrained 
From  discussing  the  theme. 

VI. 

"  And  I  fain  wrould  believe," 

Answered  he,  ' '  that  our  natures  the  years  may  retrieve 
From  such  bias  at  length.     But  that  yoke  we  hug  still, 
With  infatuate  fondness  that  weakens  the  will, 
All  awry  turns  the  judgment,  and  leaves  us,  instead 
Of  the  lords  of  our  reason,  but  serfs,  blindly  led 
By  nursed  rancors,  gray  hates,  and  false  leanings — the  train 
A  gangrened  education  has  bred  in  the  brain." 

VII. 

"  Nay,  my  brother!     Be  not  to  your  nature  unjust, 
And  sweet  charity's  influence  do  not  mistrust 
In  the  motiving  of  human  actions.     Have  faith 
That  precedence  love  over  antipathy  hath 
In  developing  credence,  determining  thought, 
And  the  sentiments  shaping  through  life-lessons  wrought." 

VIII. 

"  Sister,  charity  breathes  in  your  every  word; 
Yet  my  own  life-experiences  do  not  accord 
With  your  roseate  view.     For  instance,  I  learned 
In  my  youth  a  hard  lesson  your  faith  that  concerned. 


HELEN, 

I  was  told  by  a  mother  as  gentle  as  you, 

And  as  tender  as  on  sacred  Hermon  the  dew, 

That  a  symbol  of  sin  is  the  habit  you  wear; 

That  no  less  is  the  cross  at  your  side  that  you  bear; 

That  your  prayers  are  all  blasphemies,  and  that  for  naught 

Count  your  merciful  deeds  in  just  Deity's  thought; 

That  no  savor  with  Heaven's  immutable  King 

Have  the  vows  that  you  pay,  or  the  alms  that  you  bring. 

IX. 

"  And,  my  Sister,  while  that  sainted  being,  if  now 

Looking  down  from  the  realms  where  her  seraph-notes  flow, 

Would  to  you  waft  a  blessing  from  her  crystal  home, 

Dear  as  any  pronounced  by  your  father  in  Rome, 

Yet  on  earth  were  she  still,  in  this  blazing  to-day, 

In  this  glorying  age  of  the  intellect's  sway, 

She  would  pray  that  my  soul  be  redeemed  from  the  snare 

Of  the  tempter,  now  over  me  thrown,  in  the  care 

That  with  so  tender  grace  you  have  on  me  bestowed; 

And  yet  this  you  have  done  in  the  name  that  e'er  glowed 

In  her  soul,  as  the  one  pure,  the  one  fadeless  star, 

Which  lit  up  the  whole  earth  for  her,  blazoned  afar 

All   her  course   through  life's  shades,  over  death's  darkened 

sea, 

And  on  into  the  realms  where  her  spirit  is  free. 
And  that  mother  of  mine,  with  her  soul  all  divine, 
Should  she  come  now  to  earth,  could  not  pray  at  the  shrine 
\Vhere  you  offer  your  vows:  they  would  open  the  door 
And  would  bid  her  begone,  like  a  leper  impure." 

x. 

Then  the  Sister  replied,  pointing  upward  her  hand, 
While  her  features  a  bow  of  faith  radiant  spanned, 


FAITH.  201 

And  her  cadenced  voice  rang  like  a  silvery  bell, 
In  the  hush  of  the  twilight's  mysterious  spell,  , 
Adding  charm  to  her  words: 

' '  There  blooms  charity  there: 

There'll  bloom  charity  here,  when  time's  seasons  are  fair. 
We  must  wait  for  them  long,  for  all  slowty  they  climb 
Up  the  track  of  the  years;  and  in  fullness  of  time, 
What  we  now  see  but  on  the  horizon's  dark  verge 
Will  in  glory,  and  grandeur,  and  gladness  emerge. 
But  in  my  day  I  look  for  it  not. 

"  Heaven's  days, 

And  its  seasons,  its  objects,  its  means,  and  its  ways, 
Are  not  earth's.     This  we  mortals  are  prone  to  forget, 
And  forgetting  thus,  do  we  repine,  chafe,  and  fret. 
If  we  could  but  with  waiting  faith  hope's  signs  discern, 
If  the  lesson  of  sweet,  restful  trust  we  could  learn, 
Ah,  content  were  we,  then^  God's  long  thought  to  abide, 
And  we'd  say  of  whatever  things  come  on  life's  tide: 
'  They  are  fair,  they  are  good,  they  are  right;  God  is  just; 
All  things  doeth  He  well;  Him  in  all  things  we  trust.'  ' 

XI. 

"  Amen!"  fell  in  response  from  a  voice  low  and  weak, 
Which  from  out  of  the  ambient  shade  seemed  to  speak. 

XII. 

Sister  Gertrude,  in  startled  surprise,  turned,  and  there, 
In  the  deepening  shade  that  enveloped  the  air, 
Like  a  spectral  appearance,  a  wasted  form  stood, 
Halting,  shrinking,  in  doubting  and  hesitant  mood. 

XIII. 

Came  as  well  from  the  voice  of  the  patient,  "  Amen!" 


202  HELEli. 

XIV. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  the  voice  in  the  shade,  "  to  obtain 

Information  of  one  in  your  charge.     I  have  been 

Very  ill  since  the  night  when  they  carried  him  in 

From  the  field.    [Just  then  Mark  turned  his  head  in  surprise, 

And  there  gleamed  a  strange  look  in  his  lustreful  eyes.] 

The  good  surgeon  has  failed  to  keep  me  well  advised 

Of  his  patient's  condition." 

xv. 

"  Were  you  not  apprised," 
Asked  the  nun,  "that  our  good,  gray,  old  surgeon  is  dead?" 

xvi. 

"  Dead  ?"  exclaimed  the  sad  voice  from  the  darkening  shade. 
"  Dead  f"  repeated  the  word  weakened  tones  from  the  cot. 
"  Dead /"  rejoined  the  calm  nun.     "  At  the  front  he  was  shot, 
Through  a  horrid  mistake,  by  sharpshooters  concealed, 
While  exposing  himself  to  bear  off  from  the  field, 
In  the  latest  engagement,  a  brave  orderly, 
Who  was  mortally  wounded." 

XVII. 

"  O,  great  soul,  to  me 
Undeservedly  rendering  aid  Heaven  sent 

On  that  night  when  I  sadly  through  death's  shadows  went!" 
Said  the  patient.     And  then,  for  a  space,  not  a  word 
Through  the  sombre  and  sorrow-filled  silence  was  heard. 

XVIII. 

"  Do  you  not  need  assistance?"  the  halting  voice  asked. 

XIX. 

"  Not  from  you,  gentle  lady!     Although  I  am  tasked 
To  the  limit  utmost  of  my  nerves,  I  am  strong, 
While  not  here,  but  upon  your  sick  couch  you  belong. 
So,  return,  and  ask  God  for  new  strength;  for  He  knows, 
Soon  enough  your  good  aid  will  be  needed,  wars  woes, 


FAITH.  203 


New  and  fresh,  to  alleviate.     Wa*^  after  wave 

Of  blood  breaks  into  anguish  or  into  the  grave. 

Have  no  fear,  lady,  that  your  white  hands  may  lack  work 

While  you  linger  in  camp.     Dangers  numberless  lurk 

In  clouds  hanging  o'erhead,  with  calamity  rilled. 

Scarce  an  hour  but  our  hearts  with  fresh  terrors  are  thrilled. 

Ever  conies  the  slow  roll  of  the  ambulance  dread, 

Bearing  wounded,  or  sick,  or  the  dying,  or  dead. 

Though  none  dear  to  you  fall  by  the  next  heavy  blow, 

Forms  that  some  hearts  hold  precious  'twill  surely  lay  low." 

xx. 

While  the  nun  was  thus  speaking,  there  gathered  around, 
In  the  tent  yet  unlighted,  dim  forms,  with  heads  bound, 
And  limbs  splintered  and  bandaged,  on  crutches,  and  canes; 
Some  yet  bearing  the  last  battle's  dark,  ugly  stains; 
Standing,  sitting  on  cots,  or  upon  the  bare  ground, 
Making  never  a  motion,  nor  signal,  nor  sound. 

XXI. 

Then  the  lady-guest,  half  shrinking,  questioned  the  nun 
For  the  meaning  of  this  so  strange  troop,  all  in  dun, 
Thus  in  aspect  sepulchral  and  stillness  arrayed 
Round  this  captain  of  mercy,  a  phantom  brigade. 

XXII. 

"  They  have  come,  these  brave  fellows,"  responded  the  nun, 

"  As  accustomed  since  my  labors  here  have  begun, 

At  this  hour  to  sit  silently  by,  listening, 

While  the  Evening  Hymn  to  the  Virgin  I  sing." 

XXIII. 

'  '  And  may  I  be  permitted  to  stand  with  the  throng, 
And  to  listen  with  them  to  your  reverent  song?" 

XXIV. 

"  I  shall  only  be  happy  to  count  you  with  them," 
Sister  Gertrude  replied;  and  thus  rendered  the  hymn: 


204  HELEN. 

to    irje     Virqir). 


Geiitly  the  earth  by  the  night-dews  is  kissed; 
Falls  like  a  mantle  the  twilight's  soft  mist. 
Mother  of  God,  in  the  heart's  loneliness, 
Come,  at  this  still  hour,  to  soothe  and  to  bless. 
Sweet  Virgin  Mother!     O,  spotless  of  birth, 
Favored  of  Heaven,  thrice  favored  of  earth; 
Mary  Immaculate,  heed  thou  our  prayer: 

Aid  us  our  trials  and  sorrows  to  bear! 

Ave,  Maria  ! 
ii. 

Name  that  comes  laden  with  love  of  a  world; 
Name  at  whose  pleading  life's  war-flag  is  furled; 
Name  that  can  banish  the  fiend  of  despair; 
Name  that  can  scatter  the  dark  clouds  of  care; 
Name  that  is  blended  with  all  that  is  blest; 
Name  of  all  mortal  names  dearest  and  best; 
Look  from  thy  throne  of  pure  jasper  on  high; 

Feel  the  heart's  agony;  hear  the  heart's  cry! 

Ave,  Maria! 
in. 

Through  all  the  ages  of  life  and  of  time 

Runneth  thy  mission  of  mercy  sublime; 

Through  all  the  changes  the  swift  years  have  brought; 

Through  all  the  evils  that  sinning  hath  wrought; 

Through  all  the  weaknesses  flesh  hath  confessed; 

Through  all  the  achings  that  anguish  the  breast; 

Blessed  of  body  and  blessed  of  name, 

Mother  of  Sorrows,  thou  still  art  the  same! 

Ave,  Maria! 

IV. 

Thou  at  the  feet  of  the  Crucified  One, 
While  in  dread  horror  was  darkened  the  sun, 
Stood,  as  in  agony  quivered  His  frame, 
Faithful  in  death  to  the  Holiest  Name. 
Thus,  when  the  sunshine  is  hid  from  our  path, 
And  we  are  compassed  by  shadows  of  death, 
Treading  the  wine-press  that  His  feet  have  trod, 

Pray  for  us,  watch  o'er  us,  Mother  of  God! 

Ave,  Maria! 


Maria  ! 


FAITH.  207 

XXIV, 

In  the  shadows  the  hymn  died  away. 

The  dim  troop 

To  the  cots  or  their  barracks  dispersed,  while  the  group 
Around  which  they  had  gathered  remained. 

A  strange  spell 

Seemed  to  hold  Helen  Rolfe  to  the  spot.     Who  shall  tell 
What  beneficent  influences  from  the  seen 
And  the  unseen  combined,  in  that  hour  so  serene, 
To  speak  peace  to  her  heart?     Was  it  part  of  the  breath 
Of  the  Infinite,  which,  in  the  precincts  where  death 
Was  an  oft  welcomed  guest,  and  where  suffering's  home 
Had  been  fixed,  wrought  by  miracle  cheer  out  of  gloom? 
Was  it  benison  breathed  by  the  sufferer  there? 
Was  it  blessing  that  flowed  from  that  rhythmical  prayer? 
Surely  something  divine  o'er  her  spirit  had  come, 
While  she  stood  in  the  gloaming,  pale,  moveless,  and  dumb, 

XXVI. 

But  no  marvel  attached  to  one  sweet  influence 

There  exerted  upon  both  her  soul  and  her  sense; 

For  she  beckoned,  from  where  in  the  dun  gloom  she  stood, 

Anxiously  to  the  close-hooded  Sister  Gertrude; 

And  then,  twining  her  arm  roUnti  the  waist  of  the  nun, 

Thus  she  whispered,  as  softly  as  mercy-streams  run: 

"  I  have  learned  to  suppress  the  emotions  I  feel, 

Else  heart  had  into  voice  burst,  dear  Madame  Marsile!" 

XXVII. 

Sister  Gertrude  replied,  as  she  thrilled  with  delight: 
' '  The  weak  voice  that  came  out  of  the  shadows  of  night 
Rang  like  some  recollected,  melodious  strain, 
Yet  till  now  could  I  not  follow  memory's  train. 


208  HELEN. 

But,  my  child,  bear  in  mind,  that  of  Madame  Marsile 
Earth  knows  no  more  forever.     I  cannot  reveal 
Of  the  past  aught  to  you;  but  in  future,  whene'er 
I  can  aid  your  dear  heart  to  lift,  lighten,  or  cheer, 
This  of  tasks  the  most  grateful,  still,  Helen,  will  be, 
That  my  life,  in  its  multiplied  griefs,  leaves  for  me. 
I  shall  trust  to  my  darling's  discretion,  to  show 
By  no  look,  by  no  sign,  that  we  each  other  know, 
Save  as  workeis  together  in  sweet  mercy's  cause, — 
Save  as  bearers  of  burdens  for  hearts  that  have  woes." 

XXVIII. 

Sister  Gertrude  returned  to  her  patient,  while  still 

Helen  silent  stood,  waiting,  beneath  the  same  spell. 

.   .   .  She  had  felt  at  heart  grateful  that  Mark  had  not  spoken, 

And  left  still  the  silence  between  them  unbroken, 

Save  through  words  but  directed  to  Sister  Gertrude, 

Who  as  barrier  gentle  in  panoply  stood, 

Apart  keeping  these  hearts,  of  each  other  afraid, 

Like  two  combatants,  warily  watching  in  shade. 

XXIX. 

.   .   .  Would  he  speak  again?     Should  she  await  a  last  word — 

It  might  be  the  last  e'er  from  his  lips  to  be  heard? 

She  had  dared  not  to  look  in  his  face.     She  would  go: 

He  would  not  blame  her  silence:  the  cause  he  would  know. 

Than  she  came,  she  could  go  with  a  far  lighter  heart, 

Heaven  be  thanked! 

Musing  thus,  she  made  move  to  depart, 
When  the  pale  patient  spoke  to  the  nun: 

XXX. 

"  I  would  say, 
Ere  the  lady  shall  go  from  this  presence  away, 


FAITH.  209 

That  I  feel  a  great  strength  in  me  springing  to-night; 
And  that  while  I  shall  still,  till  the  last  ray  of  light 
From  earth's  sun  beams  upon  me,  her  memory  hold 
As  a  sacred  memento,  more  prized  than  all  gold, 
And  unceasingly  bless  her  for  there,  on  that  night, 
Whose  dark  horrors  gleam  vividly  still  on  my  sight, 
Calling  back  the  fast  vanishing  breath  to  a  breast 
Whose  throbs  else  had  been  stilled  in  oblivion's  rest; 
And  that  while  the  remembrance  of  that  night  of  gloom 
Will  to  me  make  life  dearer  in  years  that  shall  come: 
Yet  I  now  feel  hope  strong,  and  shall  not  need  her  care; 
And  my  heart  would  less  bend  'neath  a  load  it  must  bear, 
Would  she  leave  me  to  your  tender  watchfulness  here, 
And  seek  strength  for  her  duties  to  others  more  dear, 
Or  where  trials  so  stern  may  not  wear  her  young  days, 
Which  must  not  be  so  rudely  exposed  to  war's  ways. 
For  her  years  are  too  precious  to  break  in  their  morn; 
And  too  dear  is  her  being  to  one  who  has  borne 
In  the  battles  of  life  and  of  war  well  his  part, 
And  deserved  the  best  love  that  can  spring  from  her  heart. 
.   .   .  This  I  utter  in  kindness  supreme.     Does  she  see 
That  I  say  what  is  best  both  for  her  and  for  me?" 

XXXI. 

O,  the  grace  of  this  speech!     O,  the  rich,  tender  swell 
Of  these  eloquent  words,  which  now  soothingly  fell, 
Not  on  passion-torn  feelings,  wrought  wild  with  unrest, 
But  upon  a  subdued,  humble,  dutiful  breast! 
She  could  answer  with  calmness: 

"  I  feel,  and  I  know, 
The  advice  is  the  wisest.     Content  I  shall  go." 

XXXII. 

And  .she  passed  through  the  shadows,  out  into  the  night; 
While  Mark  L,a'iidis  thought  earth  had  lost  all  of  its  light. 


CANTO   EIGHTH. 


CONSOLATION. 


I. 

Nature's  heart  stirred  anew  with  the  forthcoming  spring. 
Tree,  shrub,  plant,  bulb,  and  kernel,  each  life-holding  thing, — 
Roots  that  round  Mother  Earth's  old  heart  close  twined  and 

clung, 

Moss,  and  fern,  into  sprout,  bud,  or  blossom  had  sprung. 
.   .   .  .With  her  earth-mother  in  sweet  accord,  a  new  soul 
Helen  Rolfe  had  felt  leaping  within  her,  which  stole 
From  her  eyes  the  expression  that  there  had  prevailed, 
And  their  olden,  full  meaning  for  weary  months  veiled, 
Now  investing  her  glance  with  a  warm  brilliancy, 
Which  recalled  the  young  prairie-girl,  joyous  and  free, 
To  the  generous,  patient,  and  fond  husband,  who . 
The  test  years  had  bridged  o'er  with  love  fervent  and  true, 
That  between  maidenhood  and  full  womanhood  lay, 
Crowning  yesterday's  hope  with  the  trust  of  to-day. 
Then  her  fair  body  blossomed  in  beauty,  and  bore 
What  e'en  Eden  lacked — earth's  sweetest,  balmiest  flower — 
Motherhood. 


CONSOLATION.  211 

II. 

Now  with  gratitude  Helen  bowed  low 
To  the  Author  of  life;  and  a  reddening  glow 
Tinged  the  gray  of  her  eastern  horizon,  where  hope 
Had  been  struggling  so  long  and  so  hard  to  mount  up 
And  shed  forth  on  existence  its  fresh,  golden  rays, 
To  enliven,  and  brighten,  and  gladden  her  days. 
Greater  joy  not  old  Sarah's  breast  swelled  when  she  went 
To  her  God  with  the  promised  manchild  to  her  sent, 
Than  this  furnace-tried,  old-}-oung  heart  tremblingly  felt, 
When,  with  babe  in  her  arms,  a  Madonna,  she  knelt 
Before  Him  who  had  led  her  along  stony  ways, 
Through  dark,  tortuous  paths,  and  through  long,  sunless  days. 

in. 

When  a  hero  a  victory  winneth,  exultant  break  forth 
Paeans,  jubilant,  loud,  and  resounding  through  earth. 
When  bright  genius  achieveth  success,  cometli  Fame, 
Pealing  loudly  her  trumpet,  and  sounding  its  name 
For  all  nations  and  peoples.     But  when  in  the  heart 
Is  a  triumph  accomplished,  no  couriers  start, 
Its  great  tidings  to  welcoming  throngs  to  proclaim, 
To  be  hailed  with  rejoicings  and  roars  of  acclaim; 
And  wrhen  motherhood  wins  over  weariness  long, 
Its  rejoicings  float  forth  on  the  bosom  of  song,— 
Not  such  song  as  through  shouting  throats  loudly  may  flow, 
But  the  music  of  lullaby,  tender  and  low. 
And  this,  then,  was  the  melody,  soft,  sweet,  and  mild, 
Helen  Rolfe  sang  in  joy  to  her  heart  and  her  child: 


212  HELEX. 


uullalay 


i. 

Pillow  thy  head  upon  mother's  soft  breast, 
Darling,  in  gentlest  of  slumber  to  rest. 
Listen  to  mother's  songs,  sung  but  for  thee: 
Lullaby!     Fairies  thy  guardians  be! 

n. 

Lullaby,  precious  one!     Mother's  quick  ear 
Faintest  of  breathings  of  baby  can  hear; 
Mother  can  feel  the  dear  little  heart  throb; 
Mother  can  catch  the  least  slumbering  sob. 

ii. 

She  in  the  dark  sees  the  gleam  o'f  thine  eyes; 
She  through  all  noise  hears  thy  faintest  of  sighs; 
She  gets  thy  meaning  by  mother's  own  art — 
Rules  of  interpreting  graved  on  her  heart. 

IV. 

See!     Baby's  hand  tries  its  mother's  to  clasp! 
Baby's  wee  fist  her  white  bosom  would  grasp! 
Baby-strength  wonderful!     Marvelous  skill! 
Sways  all  the  household,  does  baby's  weak  will! 

v. 

Lullaby,  baby!     Whatever  betide, 
Murmur,  and  mother  will  be  at  thy  side. 
Mother's  heart's  blood  would  be  poured  out  for  thee,- 
Poured  out  like  water,  if  need  there  should  be. 

VI. 

Mother  o'er  baby  each  moment  stands  guard; 
O'er  its  each  movement  keeps  fond  watch  and  ward; 
Mother  stands  ready,  when  baby  shall  cry, 
Waiting  to  kiss  the  new  tear  from  each  eye. 

VII. 

Mother  looks  forward,  with  tremulous  prayer, 
Forward  to  years  with  their  burdens  of  care; 


CONSOLATION. 

Sees  with  foreboding  the  fledgling  soul 
Fly  from  the  shelter  of  mother's  control. 

Till. 

And,  as  her  broodings  these  shadowings  bring 
Mother  more  closely  to  baby  doth  cling. 
Rest,  while  life's  morn  calls  thee  only  to  rest; 
Lullaby!     Lullaby!     Sleep  on  this  breast! 


IV. 

Passed  two  seasons  then  by,  with  their  light  loads  of  care; 
(Loads  the  heaviest  Helen  had  now  strength  to  bear:) 
And  the  sunshine  again  through  her  heart's  windows  streamed, 
And  her  days  with  perennial  interest  teemed. 
Was  she  happy?     If  happiness  highest  consist, 
As  some  ethical  reasoners  strongly  insist. 
In  the  constant  employment  of  head  and  of  heart, 
Then  was  Helen  now  thoroughly  happy.     Her  part 
She  was  bravely  performing  as  mother  and  wife, 
And  for  Richard  distilling  the  nectar  of  life. 


CANTO    NINTH. 


HEROISM. 


I. 

Richard  Rolfe  was  a  man  who,  in  war  as  in  peace, 
Took  the  world  at  its  best — made  the  most  of  life's  lease. 
Never  scorning  promotion,  no  means  he  neglected 
Placing  him  in  the  way  of  such  favors  expected. 
With  courage  proved,  which  he  was  known  to  possess, 
He  combined  judgment,  talent,  tact,  skill,  and  address; 
And,  prompt  ever  at  summons  of  duty,  he  bore 
A  superb  reputation  in  his  army  corps, 
And  was  toward  its  leadership  pushing  his  way, 
When,  in  leading  a  charge,  on  one  glory  filled  day, 
With  a  ball  in  his  breast  he  rolled  down  from  his  horse, 
And  awhile  lay  unhelped  in  the  battle's  wild  course, 
Till  an  officer,  there  passing  with  his  command, 
Paused  to  aid  him. 

ii. 

"  What!  General  Rolfe!     O,  my  friend, 
How  you  bleed !     Corporal !     Lend  me  your  haversack : 
Place  it  under  his  head.   .   .   .  Now,  I'll  try  to  keep  back 
This  swift  rushing  of  blood,  till  a  surgeon  appears, 
Or  the  stretchers  arrive.     I  have  serious  fears 
Of  an  artery  severed:  if  these  be  well  based, 
All  depends  on  no  time  nor  blood  running  to  waste; 


HEROISM.  215 

And  I'll  stay  here,  e'en  though  I  shall  risk  reprimand 
For  neglecting  my  post;  but  the  next  in  command 
Will  be  glad  of  the  chance  my  battalion  to  take, 
And  a  record  for  bravery  in  my  place  to  make." 

in. 
" 'Tis  Mark  Landis!  God  bless  you!  Some  water,  please !  .   .  . 

No, 

'Tis  no  artery  severed  that  causes  this  flow, 
But  a  great  minie-ball  that  came  crashing  in  here, 
Near  my  lungs;  yet  I  think  it  has  closed  my  career. 
My  poor  Helen!     God  help  her  true  heart  bear  the  blow! 
O,  my  friend,  I  am  grateful,  in  this  hour,  to  know 
You  are  here,  to  bear  her  my  last  words,  if  I  die, 
As  I  think  I  must." 

IV. 

"  Dick!     You  must  not !     If  'twere  I, 
Little  grief  it  would  be;  but  your  life  must  be  saved 
For  the  country,  for  which  death  so  often  you've  braved; 
But,  still  more,  for  the  loved  ones — your  wife,  and  your  child. 
Do  not  move,  but  lie  lower!     These  bullets  fly  wild!" 

v. 

"  Mark,  you  speak  of  the  child,  whom  you  never  have  seen. 
What  a  treasure  and  comfort  to  us  has  she  been! 
She  is  so  like  her  mother! 

"My  God!     It  is  hard 
To  give  up  the  world  now,  with  my  life  so  fair-starred!" 

VI. 

"  You'll  be  saved!     Only,  Dick,  make  no  movement,  by  all 
You  hold  dear!" 

"  You  bleed  too,  Mark!" 

"  'Twas  but  a  spent  ball." 
"  But  your  left  arm  hangs  down:  it  is  shattered,  I  fear!" 


216  HELEN. 

VII. 

"  Nevermind  that;  though  bullets  are  plentiful  here, 
J  admit.  But  you've  had,  Dick,  the  bad  luck  to  fall 
In  a  spot  to  cross-jiring  exposed. 

"  Corporal, 

With  your  bayonet  and  with  my  sword  let  us  try 
And  a  trench  burrow,  where  my  brave  friend  here  may  lie 
Till  the  stretchers  reach  us,  which  in  coming  are  slow. 
But  the  boys  have  their  hands  full  to-day,  I  well  know. 

,   .   .  That's  sufficient.     Please  help  lift  him  into  it 

Thanks! 

Now,  my  good  Corporal,  hasten  back  to  the  ranks, 
And  get  out  of  this  rough,  raking  shot-hail  alive, 
If  you  can.     I'll  return  when  relief  shall  arrive 
For  my  charge.   .   .   .   Do  not  wait,  for  each  moment  the  fire 
Hotter  grows!'' 

VIII. 

It  is  dread  of  no  death-missile  dire 
Causes  halting  in  steps  of  the  Corporal,  here, 
As  he  stands  with  an  eye  that  knows  nothing  of  fear. 

IX. 

"  Major!     Through  these  three  blood-sprinkled  years  I  have 

shared 

With  yourself,  at  your  side,  all  the  dangers  you've  dared; 
And  shall  I  now  desert  my  commander,  my  friend, 
In  death's  presence,  and  crawl  where  less  dangers  attend, 
Like  a  coward?     Ah,  major!  ask  not  this  of  me! 
Let  me  stay,  and  the  brunt  share,  whatever  it  be!" 

x. 

Major  Landis  was  moved  as  the  valiant  are  moved, 
When  the  faith  of  kin  spirits  through  trial  is  proved. 


J$e  staid  poised  for  a  moment,  bis  eye  lustrous  yet ; 
@ne  looh  toward  the  now  mantling  and  purpling  sunset. 


HEROISM.  219 

The  emotions  within  him  words  failed  to  attest, 

And  they  only  found  voice  in  the  throbs  of  his  breast. 

XI. 

Now,  there  came  the  sharp  whiz  of  a  rifle-ball  by; 
A  slight  movement  by  L,andis;  a  gleam  of  his  eye; 
And  his  right  arm  fell  helpless  and  limp  at  his  side. 

XII. 

"  You  again  hit!     O,  God!"  the  brave  Corporal  cried, 
"  Death  comes  swiftly!" 

XIII. 

And  scarcely  was  this  sentence  uttered. 
When  this  private  hero  some  word  barely  muttered 
In  faintness,  which  sounded  like  "mother";  and  then 
Fell  a  corpse  to  the  earth,  with  a  ball  through  his  brain. 

XIV. 

Standing   there,  undismayed,  though    with    twin   woundings 

maimed. 

With  quick  death  on  all  sides,  thus  Mark  Landis  exclaimed: 
"  O,  great  heart  of  true  valor!     Was  ever,  in  days 
WThen  fair  chivalry  ruled  among  men,  and  its  lays 
Tuned  the  peoples  to  honor,  such  knightliness  shown? 
Though  your  deeds  shall  ne'er  echo  in  earthly  renown, 
Yet  the  angel  who  makes  up  the  record  above 
Your  devotion  will  write  with  a  pen  dipped  in  love; 
And  the  sacrifice  born  in  your  true,  loyal  breast, 
Entrance  for  you  shall  gain  where  the  brave  calmly  rest, 
And  your  all-daring  soul,  though  as  scarlet  your  sins, 
With  a  regeneration  baptismal  shall  cleanse." 

xv. 

Though  with  loss  of  blood  weakened,  and  pale,  yet  Mark  still 
Firmly  stood,  buttressed  by  his  strong,  resolute  will— 


$SU  HELEN. 

Stood  erect,  as  if  ranged  for  parade  or  review; 

When  a  shrapnel-shell  fragment  his  shoulder  crashed  through. 

.   .   .   He  staid  poised  for  a  moment,  his  eye  lustrous  yet; 

One  look  toward  the  mantling  and  purpling  sunset; 

Then  he  fell  as  the  stag  of  the  forest  may  fall, 

When  in  swift  career  checked  by  the  huntsman's  sure  ball. 

XVI. 

.   .   .  The  sharp  firing  had  slackened,  though  little  was  left 

To  be  hit;  for  Mark  L,andis,  of  all  strength  bereft, 

Lay  there  prone  on  the  ground,  his  two  brave  friends  between; 

And  the  bleeding  and  dead  formed  a  ghastly  grim  scene — 

Such  a  scene,  as,  alas,  could  too  often  be  viewed 

Where  war's  Juggernaut  made  its  dread  progress  in  blood. 

Came  the  stretchers  at  last,  after  tiresome  delay, 

And  this  trio  of  wounded  and  dead  bore  away: 

Two  to  struggle  to  keep  still  the  bauble  of  life, 

And  the  one  to  rest  peacefully  after  the  strife. 


CANTO  TENTH. 


TRIUMPH. 


I. 

When  to  Landis  and  Rolfe  on  the  field  relief  came, 
Little  heeded  Mark  whither  they  bore  him.     The  name 
And  directions  Rolfe  gave  to  the  men  were  to  him, 
In  his  weakness  from  bleeding,  like  dream-voices  dim; 
And  the  first  he  knew  clearly  was  when  he  awoke 
The  next  day,  and  glanced  up,  and  encountered  the  look, 
Unimpassioned  and  calm,  which,  in  twilight  shades  dun, 
Two  short  years  now  agone,  he  had  thought  but  to  shun. 

ii. 

Side  by  side  lay  the  heroes,  on  neighboring  cots, 
As  they  lay  on  the  field  where  blood  mingled  their  lots. 
Side  by  side  lay  the  patients;  nor  was  it  a  nun 
Who  attended  them.     Helen's  nurse-work,  though  begun 
Upon  him  unto  whom  to  herself  she  had  vowed 
Heart  and  hand  to  yield  up,  ended  not  when  she  bowed 
To  the  yoke  that  stern  conscience  upon  her  imposed, 
Neither  had  it  with  advent  of  motherhood  closed. 

in. 

The  true  woman,  who,  strong  in  a  purpose  sublime, 
Puts  her  hands  to  the  plow,  no  impedings  of  time 
Nor  of  circumstance  e'er  can  induce  to  look  back, 
Though  regret's  phantom  shadows  be  thrown  on  her  track. 


222  HELEN. 

She  puts  proud  man  to  scorn  in  her  continent  faith, 
Which  no  perils,  nor  pangs,  nor  fierce  testings  can  scath; 
She  sets  strong  man  at  naught  in  intuitive  sight, 
Catching  glimpses  of  dawn  while  he  sees  yet  but  night. 

IV. 

Side  by  side,  there  they  lay,  at  her  feet,  at  her  will, 

At  her  beck,  as  meek  children  submissive  and  still, 

Their  strong  bodies  in  utter  subjection  to  her, 

As  for  years  their  strong  hearts,  without  doubt  or  demur. 

O,  fair  queen  of  two  realms,  that  earth's  barrier  parts, 

At  thy  girdle  hang  keys  of  what  grandly  true  hearts! " 

And  while  on  shall  flow  seasons,  there  never  will  be 

To  unlock  either  one  any  duplicate  key. 

Thou  in  both  art,  and  still  there  wilt  be,  while  the  tides 

Come  and  go,  while  the  firmament's  star-wealth  abides: 

Here,  and  yonder,  where  bridals  and  bindings  are  not, 

And  where  we  as  the  angels  shall  be,  without  blot. 

Such  are  love's  never-ceasing  sweet  miracles,  wrought 

Still  to-daj-  as  when  through  them  the  blest  Master  taught; 

And  to-day  doubters  many  love's  mission  distrust, 

Till  their  hands  into  love's  pierced  side  have  been  thrust. 

v. 

Calm,  indeed,  and  with  feeling  unmoved,  was  the  look 
That  on  Mark's  surprised  sight,  when  he  wakened,  thus  broke 
From  eyes  which  through  stern  trials  a  many  had  gone, 
And  the  strength  that  in  trial  lies  duly  had  drawn; 
But  to  this  strength  there  came  the  assistance  of  prayer, 
Firm  resolve,  and  a  nerve  that  all  perils  could  dare, 
When  occasion  such  daring  demanded.' 

Yet  these 
alone  formed  the  brave  Helen's  strong  guarantees. 


TRIUMPH.  223 

There  was  one  thing  resolve  to  sustain,  if  all,  all 
Else  had  failed.     This  one  thing  was  that  which,  since  the  fall 
In  the  Garden,  a  woman  has  been  deemed  unable  to  keep 
From  her  husband — a  secret. 

Howe'er  sore  and  deep 

Were  her  trials  and  heart-complications  between 
Rolfe  and  L,andis,  no  word  to  the  former  had  been, 
In  the  moments  of  confidence  closest,  revealed, 
Of  the  one  secret  treasure  her  heart  had  concealed. 

VI. 

Now,  for' this,  who  shall  stand  forth  with  stones,to  be  hurled 
At  poor  Helen?     If  one  without  sin  in  the  world 
Can  be  found,  let  such  one  the  first  stone  at  her  cast, 
Else,  forgiven,  shall  this  her  transgression  be  passed. 

VII. 

Robert  Burns, — and  forever,  while  throb  human  breasts, 
While  bloom  freshly  the  braes  where  he  peacefully  rests, 
And  through  emerald  banks  flows  loved  Ayr  to  the  sea, 
Shall  his  memory  fragrant  arid  benisoned  be, — 
Gave  to  one  of  the  friends  he  held  dear  this  advice, 
Which  will  surely  pass  current  where  wisdom  hath  price: 
That  in  heart-confidence  one  should  "  keep  something  still 
To  one's  self,  one  would  scarcely  to  any  one  tell." 
I  could  wish  that  the  charmed  Rhymer  Robin  had  added 
This  thought-filament  through  the  same  needle  threaded: 
One  should  leave  something  still  in  heart-searching  unasked; 
Should  in  some  points  the  confidence  leave  still  untasked. 
Were  these  principles  followed,  in  life  and  in  love, 
What  strong  factors  of  harmony  would  they  not  prove ! 

vni. 

Ah,  good  husband,  that  last  query,  useless,  unkind, 
Writh  which  you,  with  persistency  foolish  and  blind, 


224  HELEN. 

Still  kept  touching  the  quick  of  your  wife's  nettled  heart, 

Was  the  one  which  has  likely  your  souls  torn  apart, 

Ne'er  again  to  be  joined  in  the  durance  of  years. 

And  what  good  has  it  done  you?     You've  learned  where  with 

tears 

The  lone  grave  of  a  long  buried  love  was  bedewed — 
Where  the  youth-planted  yew  has  in  shaded  vale  stood. 
Do  you  not  some  such  grave  in  your  own  breast  conceal, 
Which  'twere  wrenching  your  heart  to  be  forced  to  reveal? 

IX. 

O,  fond  wife,  let  that  question  die  out  on  your  lips; 

For  it  may  bring  to  love's  light  a  death-dark  eclipse. 

It  may  gain  you  the  knowledge  that  somewhere  a  heart 

Treads  regret's  weedy  path,  in  which  he  once  had  part. 

Will  this  shed  through  your  darkened  heart  gladdening  rays? 

Will  this  sweeten  your  home,  or  make  joyous  your  days? 

x 

Though  in  no  way  (as  frequently  shown  heretofore) 
A  philosopher,  Rolfe  had  a  usable  store 
Of  world-wisdom,  which  stood  him  in  excellent  stead, 
And  kept  healthy  his  heart,  and  well  balanced  his  head. 
In  his  love  he  went  never  the  record  beyond; 
(A  phrase,  this,  of  which  lawyers  and  statesmen  are  fond, 
And  not  very  poetic,  but  just  what  I  need 
To  describe  this  true  man,  whose  each  thought  was  a  deed, 
And  who  into  a  faith  life's  realities  wrought, 
That  was  with  the  tense  soul  of  earth's  earnestness  fraught;) 
Helen's  heart  he  had  never  with  probe  burrowed  round 
After  some  foreign  substance  which  might  there  be  found; 
But  such  love  as  she  gave  him  he  gratefully  took, 
And  it  gilded  his  days,  and  red-lined  his  life-book. 


TRIUMPH.  Ho 

XI. 

Helen  saw  with  distinctness  the  issue  before  her, 

And  the  pride  of  resolve  in  great  spirits  came  o'er  her. 

Her  husband  must  see  not  one  quaver  in  her; 

Not  a  muscle  must  change,  no  emotion  must  stir; 

And  withal  must  she  never  in  gentleness  lack 

To  the  guest-patient  there.     On  no  nun's  patient  back 

Could  she  place  the  hard  burden. 

y  For  Richard  had  said, 

When  brought  back  to  her,  mangled  and  bleeding,  and  laid 
Side  by  side  with  Mark  Landis: 

"  His  case,  dear,  demands 

Care  and  nursing  from  you.     Only  your  tender  hands 
Should  dress  wounds  that  were  taken  to  shield  me  from  death. 
Do  I  ask  too  much,  darling?"  he  added,  his  breath 
Faint  and  weak.      "  If  of  stranger-help  need  there  shall  be, 
L,et  me  beg  that  it  shall  be  bestowed  upon  me. 

XII. 

"  Could  your  hovering  spirit  a  witness  have  been 

Of  that  wildly  terrific  and  ghastly  grand  scene, 

Where   with   bared   brow   my    friend,    my    protector,    stood, 

crowned 

With  the  smile  of  a  martyr  for  sacrifice  bound, 
Such  as  that  with  which  heroes  unflinchingly  meet 
The  dark  frownings  of  fate  and  its  summonings  greet, 
Shielding  me  with  his  form  from  the  hot  leaden  rain. 
This  my  urging  were  needless  for  him  to  obtain 
At  your  hands  but  such  nursing  as  woman  bestows 
On  her  own  when  her  heart  with  love's  tenderness  glows. 
'Twas  no  marvel  that  one  of  his  men,  true  to  him 
As  he  to  his  ideal  of  courage  supreme, 


HELEN. 

With  an  ardor  infectious  and  dauntlessness  fired, 
Nerved  as  noble  despair  nerves  the  brave,  and  inspired 
By  the  calmness  with  which  death's  own  front  he  defied, 
Pleaded  hard  for  permission  to  die  at  his  side, 
And  for  Mark  and  for  me  poured  his  purple  life  there, 
Freely,  gently,  as  maiden  to  Heaven  her  prayer." 

XIII. 

It  was  thus  that  the  husband  the  wife  had  besought 
On  behalf  of  the  friend. 

Then  the  swift-sweeping  thought 
Had  at  first  touched  her  mind,  in  confession  to  fall 
On  her  knees  before  Richard,  and  tell  to  him  all; 
And  the  cowardly  ghosts  of  suggestion  athwart 
Her  soul's  pathway  had  flitted,  and  shrieked  to  her  heart: 
"  Seek  not  thou  to  comply  with  thy  husband's  request! 
Venture  not  to  nurse  here  this  so  dangerous  guest! 
Him   near   have    not!     Thou     dar'st  not!     Thou'lt    shrink! 

Thou  wilt  fail! 

Try  it  not!     Tempt  not  fate!     In  the  test  thou  wilt  quail; 
And  far. worse  thus  to  fail  than  just  now  to  retreat, 
And  cast  jewels  withheld  at  thy  lord's  loyal  feet!" 

XIV. 

And  'twas  something  of  that  courage  Mark  had  displayed 
On  her  spirit  had  seized;  for,  unswerved,  undismayed, 
She  had  risen,  while  round  her  wreathed  smile  passing  fair, 
L,ike  the  aureole  calendared  saints  only  wear, 
Beating  back  the  dark  demons  of  fear  into  shade, 
And,  with  look  sadly  sweet  yet  firm  purposed,  had  said: 
"Yes,  my  husband,  your  wish  I  will  meet,  and  our  friend 
With  a  sisterly  care  I  will  nur.se,  I  will  tend." 


TRIUMPH.  22? 

XV. 

Hungry,  ravenous,  savage,  the  tiger  of  war 

Two  of  God's  images  to  deface  and  to  mar 

Had  done  all  that  it  could;  it  had  torn,  it  had  crashed, 

It  had  bitten,  and  battered,  and  shattered,  and  mashed. 

Hands  and  knives  of  skilled  surgeons  long  busy  were  kept, 

Cleaning  up  where  the  besom  of  battle  had  swept; 

And  when  they  in  the  work  had  performed  their  due  share, 

Helen  Rolfe  took  the  patched-up  frames  into  her  care, 

And  poured  balm  on  the  gashes  the  tiger-teeth  made, 

Into  life  nursing  powers  that  prostrate  were  laid. 

xvi. 

It  was  hard,  heavy,  nerve-trying,  heart-wearing  work, 
Though  for  never  a  moment  came  temptings  to  shirk; 
For  'twas  something  apart  from,  beyond,  and  above 
What  we  mortals  are  wont  to  pronounce  earthly  love, 
That  gave  strength  to  her  hands,  and  a  deft  lightness  lent 
To  the  touch  of  her  fingers,  as  gently  she  bent 
O'er  the  wounds,  handling  tenderly  bandage  and  .splint, 
Plying  lotion  and  liniment,  linen  and  lint. 
Yet  her  two  subject-patients  she  ruled  rigidly, 
And  was  firm,  as  a  faithful  nurse  ever  should  be. 
Little  time  did  she  have  sympathy  to  display: 
Deeds  to  do  came  more  swiftly  than  words  came  to  say. 

XVII. 

Of  the  wound  of  the  General  there  was  grave  doubt. 
Closely  nestled  the  ball  next  the  lungs.      "  Cut  it  out?" 
To  Rolfe  thus  said  the  surgeon;  "  no!     If  you  would  see 
Any  more  of  earth's  days,  ask  it  not.     It  would  be 
Such  a  blow  at  life's  resonant  organ  to  deal, 
As  its  valves  in  eternity's  silence  would  seal." 


228  HELEN. 

And,  as  might  deadly,  venomous  serpent  lie  coiled, 
Still,  but  ready  to  spring,  in  the  lap  of  a  child, 
There  the  missile  yet  stayed,  holding  ever  the  key, 
As  death-guest,  to  the  chamber  of  life's  mystery. 

XVIII. 

Major  Landis's  case  was  more  serious  still, 

And  presented  a  problem  for  surgical  skill. 

For  some  days  it  was  questionable  whether  Mark 

Could  survive  the  blood-loss,  and  the  prospect  was  dark 

That  the  life  so  oft  periled  would  be  any  more 

By  time's  current  borne  into  the  hazard  of  war. 

XIX. 

' '  A  remarkably  phased  constitution  is  his. 

Upon  sounding  his  lungs,  I'm  convinced  that  it  is 

A  clear  case  of  tubercular  phthisis  that  we 

Have  before  us  to  deal  with,  when  we  shall  be  free 

From  the  grave  cotnplications'the  fractures  have  caused; 

Thus  one  ill  on  another  is  superimposed, 

Rendering  the  conditions  unfavoring,"  said, 

With  oracular  voicing,  a  surgeon,  whose  head, 

Though  of  solid  professional  learning  as  full 

As  a  chestnut  of  meat,  yet  small  knack  had  to  cull 

From  life's  facts  differential  the  knowledge  they  speak, 

And,  by  gauging  that  knowledge  by  science,  to  seek 

Where  lies  wisdom  the  golden,  whose  secrets  consist 

But  in  fitting  conclusions  to  facts  that  exist, 

(In  the  place  of  adapting  facts  so  as  to  suit 

Coined  conclusions,)  and  showing,  as  logic's  ripe  fruit, 

The  relations  all  facts  to  their  basic  truths  bear. 


TRIUMPH.  2'- 

XX. 

This  philosophy,  clear  as  the  azure  of  air, 

Was  beyond  this  sage  scalpel-man's  mental  purview; 

For  he  never  the  truth  from  its  well-bottom  drew. 

He  had  ever  with  facts  stopped,  which,  fitting  his  thesis, 

Susceptible  were  of  a  kin  exegesis; 

While  facts  at  him  staring  in  broadest  daylight, 

Scintillating  with  rays  as  the  diamond  bright, 

Which  with  preconceived  views  of  his  tallied  not  well, 

Which  a  totally  different  tale  had  to  tell, 

And  with  adverse  significance  all  over  bristled, — 

Such  facts  he  passed  by,  or  else  down  the  wind  whistled; — 

An  ancient,  approved,  usage-worn,  custom-gray, 

Strictly  orthodox,  highly  professional  way! 

XXI. 

There  were  factors  of  life  in  Mark's  system,  whose  signs 
Were  as  clear  and  distinct,  if  but  heeded,  as  lines 
Demarkation  that  show  'twixt  the  land  and  the  sea; 
But  to  heed  them  would  ultra-professional  be, 
And  they  hence  were  as  stoutly  ignored  as  by  prude 
Might  be  statues  that  border  too  much  on  the  nude. 

xxn. 

Other  surgeons  came,  who  by  the  first  dictum  stood, 
That  the  wounds  were  too  deep,  and  too  thin  was  the  blood; 
And  thus,  having  decreed  Major  L,andis  to  lack 
Constitutional  strength  nature's  efforts  to  back, — 
Decreed  facts  in  the  line  of  their  theses  to  lie, — 
These  wise  judges  of  science  condemned  him  to  die, 
And  apportioned  his  share  in  days  earthly  as  small; 
And  so  notified  Helen. 


230  HELEN. 

XXIII. 

And  then  fell  a  pall 

On  her  spirit.     She  shrank  'neath  the  blow,  and  bent  down- 
Bent  to  earth. 

It  had  come,  the  designed,  thorned  crown! 
The  dense  shadows  were  round  her;  dismay  held  control; 
And  Gethsemane's  passion  swept  over  her  soul. 

XXIV. 

Then  from  out  of  the  depths  she  sent  forth  such  a  prayer 
As  comes  only  from  hearts  with  great  crosses  to  bear: 

XXV. 

' '  Thou  who  once  hast  all  bidden  to  come  unto  Thee 
That  heart- weary  and  heavily  earth-laden  be; 
Thou  who  once  in  the  dust,  on  the  way  to  dark  death, 
Hast  thy  cross  borne  in  weakness  and  languor  of  breath; 
O,  Redeemer  all-merciful,  hear  Thou  the  plaint, 
And  draw  near  to  the  aid,  of  one  weary  and  faint! 
For  without  Thee  she  cannot  her  heart-burden  bear, 
And  without  Thee  she  trembles  and  sinks  in  despair! 
O,  true  heart  of  Immanuel,  pierced  for  our  sake, 
This  great  life  in  the  shadows  do  not  Thou  now  take! 
Grant  Thou  unto  thy  handmaiden,  Master  adored, 
Her  request:  spare  this  soul,  Galilee's  risen  Lord!" 

XXVI. 

Prayer,  as  ever,  gave  strength;  and  from  under  the  cloud 
Came  grace,  patience  annealing,  and  lightened  her  load. 
And  'twas  helpful  to  her  that  she  now  could  kneel  there, 
By  her  husband's  bedside,  and  pour  out  earnest  prayer 
For  both  husband  and  friend. 

XXVII. 

She  said  nothing  to  Mark 
Of  the  prospect  the  surgeons  had  painted  so  dark, 


TRIUMPH.  231 

And  their  adverse  decree;  but  she  whispered  it  low 
To  her  husband,  who  said: 

' '  Still,  as  oft  as  you  go 

To  the  Throne,  take  his  case,  dear;  and  this  will  do  more 
Than  can  surgical  skill,  or  can  medical  lore: 
Take  it  thither,  and  well  I  know  you'll  gain  the  day: 
For  all  Heaven  must  listen  when  saints  like  you  pray." 

XXVIII. 

Not  as  lightly  did  L,andis  relinquish  his  hold 
Upon  life,  as  the  surgeons  had  darkly  foretold. 
He  tenaciously  clung  to  the  weak  remnant  left, 
Though  apparently  of  all  denned  hope  bereft, — 
Clung  as  closely,  and  seemed  as  reluctant  to  yield 
To  the  conqueror  pale,  as  on  yonder  red  field 
He  was  ready  and  willing  to  give  himself  o'er 
To  that  conqueror,  waiting  'mid  battle's  wild  roar. 

XXIX. 

Was  it  Helen's  sweet  prayers  that  were  keeping  aglow 

Still  the  embers  of  being,  now  burning  so  low? 

Was  it  her  interceding  with  merciful  Heaven 

In  the  strength  of  grace  ever  to  gentleness  given? 

I  myself  think  it  was;  and  I  care  not  to  know 

If  far  up  to  the  Throne  those  prayers  first  had  to  go, 

And  in  answer  the  blessing  rode  down  on  the  air; 

Or  if,  heard  when  thus  murmured  so  nea»"  to  Mark  there, 

Their  strong  influence  wrought  was  direct,  as  it  went 

From  one  soul  to  the  other  in  that  silent  tent. 

The  effect  were  the  same,  and  the  work  were  the  same; 

'Twere  all  wrought  in  one  spirit,  all  gained  in  one  Name; 

And  though  hard  be  to  mortals  thus  tracing  the  line 

That  prayer  takes  or  prayer  draws,  its  course  still  is  divine. 


CANTO   ELEVENTH. 


RECONCILEMENT. 


I. 

Into  L,andis's  blood-courses  entered,  at  length, 
Some  infusion  of  warmth;  then  slight  stirring  of  strength 
Brought  some  tinge  to  the  cheek,  some  relief  to  the  breast; 
And  hope  whispered  to  faith  that  the  crisis  had  passed. 

ii. 

"  God  be  praised,  my  dear  fellow!"  said  Rolfe;  •'  you  will  live! 
Helen's  prayers,  they  have  saved  you:  to  her  credit  give. 
Not  at  all  to  the  doctors,  who,  having  predicted 
Your  death,  will  grieve  sorely  to  be  contradicted 
By  fate  and  by  woman.     Again  do  I  say, 
Give  to  her  the  glad  glory  that  you  live  to-day!" 
But  ere  this  speech  was  done,  slumber,  heralding  health, 
Of  Mark's  senses  the  mastery  compassed  by  stealth. 

in. 

— "  Unto  God  give  all  glory,  and  none  unto  man!" 
Accents  chiding  thus  through  the  tent's  soft  silence  ran 
Richard  turned  on  his  cot,  and  before  him  there  stood. 
In  the  beauty  of  tenderness,  Sister  Gertrude. 
Not  unwelcome,  though  strange,  was  to  him  that  white  face. 
Where  pain  tented,  such  faces  were  ne'er  out  of  place. 

IV. 

"  Sister,  thanks!     The  rebuke  I  in  meekness  receive. 
But  through  her  I  must  worship;  through  her  I  believe. 


RECONCILEMENT.  235 

Scant  religion  have  I;  and  be  not  too  severe, 
If  a  saint  I  like  you  choose,  although  mine  be  here, 
Yours  up  yonder,  to  pray  for  me  at  the  White  Throne, 
Whither  I  have  not  courage  to  venture  alone." 

v. 

"  And  this  reverenced  saint,  of  so  rare,  precious  worth, 
Whom  you've  chosen  to  bear  your  petitions  from  earth," 
Said  the  nun,  with  a  mild  and  compassionate  smile, 
"Is—" 

"  My  wife!"  prompted  Richard;  "  the  one  free  from  guile 
Of  all  beings  I  know,  unless  I  should  except 
Yonder  friend,  (o'er  whose  radiant  face  has  now  crept, 
As  you  see,  the  soft  impress  of  sleep,)  whom  my  wife, 
Through  her  prayers,  has  called  back  to  the  sweetness  of  life." 

VI. 

Entered  Helen  now,  holding  her  child  by  the  hand; 
And  at  sight  of  the  nun  her  bright  features  were  spanned 
With  a  tender  alarm;  but  a  cognizant  glance 
From  the  latter  allayed  her  disturbed  countenance. 
Two  fresh,  fragrant  bouquets,  culled  of  blooms  growing  wild. 
Were  borne,  one  by  the  mother,  and  one  by  the  child; 
And  the  former  was  placed  by  the  husband's  cotside, 
While,  in  fullness  of  childhood's  new  blossoming  pride, 
The  young  queen  placed  the  latter  by  Landis's  cot,— 
Tributes  which  were  each  day  to  these  invalids  brought. 

VII. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  the  Sister,  "  to  render  my  aid 
Where  the  work  of  my  weak  hands  can  useful  be  made. 
My  dear  Madam,  though  smiles  your  fair,  winsome  face  wears, 
It  would  seem,  with  your  wearisome  burden  of  cares, 
That  your  spirit,  or  frame,  must  be  ready  to  break. 
Yoxi  must  let  me  assist  vou.     You  must  let  me  take 


•236 


HKI.KX. 


Ail  old  patient  back  under  my  charge,  whom  I  see 
Sleeping  here  your  good  husband  beside.     It  will  be 
A  relief  that  you  surely  must  need." 

She  had  said 
But  the  truth:  Helen's  load  on  her  sorely  had  weighed. 

VIII. 

Blessed  nun !     Helen  felt  she  could  fall  to  the  ground, 
And  the  hem  of  her  robe  kiss,  as  Mercy's  queen  crowned. 
And  to  Him  who  help  giveth  in  time  of  heart-need 
She  gave  thanks  for  this  aidance,  wherein  she  could  read 
A  clear  Providence. 

IX. 

Wondrous  the  strength  of  belief 
In  a  Providence  special!     Care,  fear,  trouble,  grief, 
Trial,  doubt,  and  temptation— it  conquers  them  all! 
Why,  ye  skeptics,  ye  new-lights,  plot  ye  for  its  fall? 
Bruise  it  not!  break  it  not!  cloud  it  not!  curse  it  not! 
To  weak  mortals  all  countless  the  boons  it  hath  brought; 
With  fine  gold  hath  it  gilded  the  framework  of  life; 
Kindly  truce  hath  it  sounded  full  oft  in  heart-strife; 
It  hath  purpled  the  sunset  of  many  a  joy; 
Shining  worth  hath  it  found  in  a  deal  of  alloy; 
In  dense  darkness  of  dread  despair's  night  hath  it  shown 
Unto  myriad  souls  where  appeareth  the  dawn. 
O,  ye  vengeful  iconoclasts,  can  ye  not  spare 
This  one  faith-symbol  standing  since  Eden  bloomed  fair? 
Ye  agnostics!     Yourselves  build  on  bases  of  sand, 
Styling  what  ye  build  truth,  and  think  that  is  to  stand 
When  the  things  ye  raze  shall  in  oblivion  be. 
Ye  as  well  supreme  truth  through  a  glass  darkly  see! 
Ere  ye  ask  us  to  heed  your  new  ethics,  show  where, 
Clear  of  cloud,  clear  of  mist,  of  all  earth-shadows  clear, 


RECONCILEMENT.  23' 

Your  bright  sun  of  pure  truth  in  strength  radiant  stands, 
Giving  light  to  the  peoples  and  warmth  to  the  lands! 
O,  empirics!     Ye  can  not!     Your  sun  is  a  cheat! 
It  is  darkened  all  over  with  doubt;  sheds  no  heat, 
And  no  light,  and  no  life! 

We  will  wait,  we  will  stand 

'Neath  the  old,  till  truth's  new  sun  its  rays  shall  expand. 
The  old  may  prove  a  myth  in  the  far-removed  end; 
But  yet  better  a  myth  in  whose  phases  there  blend 
Heat,  and  color,  and  brightness,  and  gladness,  than  one 
Cold,  and  soulless,  and  rayless,  and  naked,  and  lone, 
Standing  desert  and  drear  in  the  bleak  universe, 
Like  a  banned  spirit,  like  an  inherited  curse  ! 

x. 

.   .   .  Mark  of  Richard  permission,  through  urgency,  gained, 
To  be  freed  from  his  so  gentle  durance. 

"Old  friend," 

He  said,  holding  Rolfe's  hand,  while  his  voice  nearly  failed 
With  his  heart-deep  emotion;  "  your  tent  has  availed, 
Though  so  small  its  extent,  full  as  well  to  show  forth 
Worth  chivalric,  as  could  proudest  palace  of  earth. 
Royal  guest  at  an  emperor's  court  had  I  been, 
Entertainment  more  princely  I  could  not  have  seen. 
And  of  you,  and  of  Helen,  [this  was  the  first  time 
He  had  called  her  by  that  cherished  name  since  the  thyme 
Had  no  longer  grown  in  the  parterre  of  his  heart,] 
And  of  this  flower-girl,  (pardon  tears  that  will  start,) 
I  shall  treasure  such  dear  recollections  as  will, 
In  all  paths  of  existence,  abide  with  me  still, 
And  as  comfort  and  help  to  me  evermore  serve, 
Whatsoever  the  lot  for  me  fate  shall  reserve." 


238  HELEN. 

XI. 

Helen  then  shed  an  honest  tear — one  that  fell  down 
On  the  face  of  her  husband,  and  met  there  no  frown. 
And  the)*  bade  him — the  husband,  the  child,  and  the  wife — 
A  united  good-bye,  whose  tones  rang  through  his  life. 

XII. 

...  A  constrained  happiness  had  been  Mark's,  while  he  lay 

'Neath  the  care  of  the  being  who  gladdened  the  day 

And  illumined  the  night;  and  emotions,  subdued, 

Of  profound,  fervent,  manly,  unvoiced  gratitude 

Filled  his  breast, — gratitude  to  his  God,  who  had  brought 

To  his  soul  this  dear  season,  so  sacred,  unsought, 

Of  peace,  rest,  and  heart-healing;  and  likewise  to  her — 

To  her,  now  thrice  the  saint  in  his  heart's  calendar — 

Who,  through  wise  and  true  womanhood,  grandly  displayed, 

Had  what  once  seemed  impossible  possible  made, 

So  that  safely  his  heart  had  the  ordeal  borne, 

And  ha'd  come  thence  unscorched,  and  unscarred,  and  untorn. 

In  this  harborage  brief,  in  this  refuge  of  rest, 

He  had  been  to  the  depths  of  his  whole  being  blessed. 

XIII. 

.  .  .  Convalescence  beneath  the  kind  care  of  the  nun 
Was  so  swift,  that  her  sway  but  brief  tenure  had  run, 
When  once  more  on  his  feet  Mark  stood,  ready  again 
To  face  danger  or  death  on  the  battle's  red  plain. 

XIV. 

He  now  realized  such  reconcilement  to  fate 
As  he  had  not  yet  felt;  and  he  opened  the  gate 
That  again  led  out  into  the  pulsating  world, 
And  the  banner  of  life's  struggle  newly  unfurled, 
With  a  heart  fresher,  stronger,  and  wanner  than  when, 
Years  agone,  it  had  bowed — ah!  so  low  it  bowed  then! 


RECONCILEMENT.  239 

He  heard  hum  the  hive  human;  he  breathed  the  fresh  air; 
He  looked  out  on  the  earth,  and  it  seemed  to  him  fair. 


xv. 

Major  Landis  had  found,  when  reporting  himself 

At  headquarters  for  duty,  two  rolls  on  a  shelf 

In  the  commandant's  office  for  him;  and  he  thought 

They  might  be  wretched  cuts  of  the  last  battle  fought; 

Or  sad  caricatures  of  the  patriot  dead, 

(At  a  cent  dear,  but  sold  for  a  dollar  a  head; ) 

Or  low-browed,  beery -looking  presentments  of  saints, 

To  adorn  and  enliven  lone  barracks  and  tents: 

Or  illustrated  lessons  of  national  faith, 

In  blear  chromos  whose  publishers  merited  death; 

Or  perhaps  specimen  phrenological  charts; 

Or  some  other  of  those  multifarious  arts 

And  devices  whereby  the  poor  soldiers  were  robbed; 

And  had  still  let  them  lie;  when  he  heard  himself  dubbed 

"  Colonel  Landis." 

XVI. 

Saluting  the  new  commandant, 
Mark  corrected  him,  saying: 

' '  A  fine  compliment 
You  pay  me  through  mistake.      I'm  but  Major  thus  far." 

XVII. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  the  General  said;  "  but  a  star, 

Instead  of  either  eagle  or  leaf,  you  will  wear. 

Two  commissions  have  been  for  some  time  l>'ing  there, 


240 


HELEN. 


General;  and  the  third  comes  to-day.     You'll  report 
For  assignment.     Young   man,  you    have  strong  friends   at 
court/' 

XVIII. 

"  I've  no  friends  who  would  interest  thus  take  in  me," 
Mark  replied,  "  save  it  be  our  division  commander,  and  he — " 

XIX. 

"  He's  enough;  for  his  influence  carries,  of  course, 
That,  not  small,  of  his  beautiful  wife,  the  sweet  nurse." 


CANTO  TWELFTH. 


AU  REVOIR. 


Richard  Rolfe  gained  but  slowly.       The  strong  spirit,  bright, 
Cheerful,  patient  at  first,  chafed  as  hope's  doubtful  light, 
Though  yet  giving  no  signs  of  extinction,  grew  dull: 
And  as  well  heart  as  hand  of  poor  Helen  was  full. 

n. 

One  calm  day,  when,  his  world-lighting  labor  all  done, 
To  his  rest  in  his  gold-curtained  bed  sank  the  sun, 
Helen  thus  said  to  Richard,  when  into  his  face 
She  had  gazed  long  and  earnestly,  seeking  to  trace, 
Though  in  vain,  some  faint  token  of  health  in  his  eyes, 
Some  dim  signals  of  strength  that  hope  might  recognize: 

in. 

"  O,  my  husband,  if  you  would  but  let  me  suggest 
What  to  do  with  this  body  of  yours,  which  no  rest 
And  no  healing  obtains  in  this  wearisome  camp, 
Where  the  reveille  drum  and  the  sentinel's  tramp 
Are  the  sounds  that  incessantly  fall  on  your  ear, 
With  the  clangor  and  terrors  of  war  ever  near; 
If  you  will  but  deliver  yourself  unto  me, 
And  with  this  wasted  frame  give  me  all  liberty, 
I  will  take  it  up  gently,  and  bear  it  away, 
To  a  Southland — not  ours,  but  far  yonder,  where  lay 
The  world's  middle-age  glories  when  chivalry  thrived, 
Whose  true  spirit  in  you  has  so  nobly  survived. 


24:2  HELEN. 

IV. 

' '  We  will  go  to  the  fair  land  of  Provence,  where  once 
I  was  ready  my  own  native  land  to  renounce 
For  the  peace  which  that  charmed  realm  presented;  and  there 
I  will  gather  for  you  the  old  chronicles  rare, 
And  the  tales  of  romance  that  in  folk-legends  live; 
And  all  these  into  song  for  my  husband  I'll  weave: 
Then  I'll  sing  them  to  him,  lying  by  the  warm  sea; 
And  I'll  win  his  applause,  which  will  dear  be  to  me. 

V. 

The  ripe  grapes  we  will  pluck  where  they  burden   the  vine; 
And  your  blood  we  will  warm  with  rich,  redolent  wine, 
Such  as  that  which  in  Cana  a  God-guest  once  made, 
And  baptized  with  his  blessing.     The  olive  trees'  shade 
Shall  refresh  us;  their  fruit,  and  the  fig,  and  the  date, 
Your  life-currents  shall  quicken  and  invigorate. 

VI. 

"  And  thus  lingering  there,  while  the  days  past  us  run, 
Fanned  by  airs  that  blow  softly  from  lands  of  the  sun, 
And  not  counting  the  hours  nor  the  weeks  that  go  by, 
Time  begin  but  to  reckon  when  gleams'in  your  eye 
Light  of  health  and  of  strength.     Until  then  we'll  forget 
That  earth  aught  hath  o'er  which  care  to  borrow  or  fret. 
We  will  sit  and  watch  sunsets  and  dawns  come  and  go, 
And  a  dream-life  that  no  interruption  shall  know 
We  will  live,  with  no  one  save  ourselves  and  our  child 
To  regard. 

VII. 

' '  And  when  Heaven  once  more  shall  have  smiled 
On  my  husband,  my  Richard  of  lionlike  heart, 
And  his  arm  given  strength,  then  again  his  old  part 


said,  "  I  will  go 
To  the  earth's  farthest  bounds,  if  it  be  but  with  you. 


AU   REVOIR.  245 

And  old  place  in  the  conflict  of  life  he  shall  take, 
And  come  back  where  the  world  is  alive  and  awake. 
For  my  lion-heart  should  not  a  love  captive  pine 
While  his  arm  could  swing  weapon  in  battle's  drawn  line. 
.   .   .  What  response  has  my  husband  to  this  wifely  plan? 
Will  he  yield  himself  up?     Will  he  go?" 

VIII. 

.   .   .   Pale  and  wan, 

Lying  there,  he  had  listened  to  her,  while  a  light, 
Such  as  love  ever  keeps,  e'en  in  death's  gloaming,  bright, 
Reillumined  his  eyes,  and  he  said: 

"  I  will  go 

To  the  earth's  farthest  bounds,  if  it  be  but  with  you. 
Take  me  unto  you;  carry  me  whither  you  will: 
Only  send  me  not  from  you;  remain  with  me  still; 
Still  be  near  me,  and  do  with  me  what  shall  seem  best; 
I  but  ask  you  to  give  me  your  presence,  and  rest." 


IX. 

Bon  voyage!     Lightly  blow  o'er  the  main,  swelling  gales! 
Gently  rock,  ocean  billows,  the  ship,  as  it  sails 
From  the  shore  where  the  lusty  young  child  of  the  Now 
Stands  with  eyes  looking  Westward  and  star-adorned  brow, 
To  the  strand  where  sits  dreaming  the  gray-bearded  Then, 
Looking  Eastward  for  days  that  come  never  again. 
Breath  of  balm  from  all  spice-isles  that  dot  the  far  seas 
O'er  the  deck  be  soft  wafted  on  wings  of  each  breeze! 


v'4i;  HELEN. 

X. 

Bon  rctour!     May  the  gentle  skies  hovering  o'er 

These  heart-worn  voyageurs,  on  yon  far.  storied  shore, 

Break  with  never  a  storm  that  shall  damage  or  scath, 

Till,  heart- freshened,  they  start  on  their  glad  homeward  path; 

And  then  back  to  the  land  that  lies  fair  in  the  West 

May  they  come  bearing  profit-sheaves — come,  spirit-blest! 


PART  THIRD 


FRBITION 


CANTO    FIRST. 


PEACE. 


I. 

Back  from  roaring  of  cannon  and  rolling  of  drum, 
To  his  home  on  the  prairie  Mark  L,andis  had  come; 
And  he  stood  at  his  gate,  and  gazed  over  his  farm, 
And  contrasted  its  calm  with  war's  ceaseless  alarm. 
He  saw  each  growing  thing  springing  forth  as  of  old: 
Saw  the  wheat  turning  swiftly  from  green  into  gold; 
Saw  the  corn  in  ranks  marshaled  as  grandly  as  men. 
Glad  to  be  of  such  ranks  in  command  once  again; 
Smelt  the  scent  of  the  sweet  prairie  hay,  newly  mown, 
From  the  field  by  the  sweating,  mild-eyed  oxen  drawn; 
Saw  in  pasture  the  kine,  in  whose  lowing  he  heard 
Hymnal  praise  of  blest  creatures,  with  gratitude  stirred; 
Saw  all  nature  instinct  with  life,  thrift,  and  increase; 
And  then  looked  up  to  Heaven  and  thanked  God  for  peace. 

II. 

Let  the  muse  turn  aside  from  the  thread  of  the  tale, 
For  a  moment  on  peace  and  its  profits  to  dwell. 
Of  the  glories  of  war  bards  unnumbered  have  sung, 
And  their  strains  through  each  vale  of  our  loved  land  have 

rung; 

While  divines  vie  with  orators,  fiery-browed  Mars 
In  renown  to  keep  foremost  among  gods  and  stars. 
Small  inducement  this  leaves  for  him  who  of  sweet  peace 
Would  fain  sing,  'gainst  the  tide  of  the  people's  caprice. 


248  HELEN. 

III. 

Ye  who  cherish  that  true  love  of  country  which  springs 
From  firm  faith  in  a  future  that  righteousness  brings — 
In  a  future  that  must  in  its  spirit  lift  up 
The  Republic,  and  make  it  a  beacon  of  hope 
To  the  lands  in  autocracy's  darkness  that  sit, 
And  of  liberty  see  but  the  dull  silhouette, — 
To  your  patriot  hearts  I  make  earnest  appeal 
In  behalf  of  a  cause  which  of  right  claims  your  zeal. 

IV. 

If  refinement  the  outlay  repay  spent  to  gain 

Its  effulgent  effect  on  humanity's  brain; 

If  prosperity  yield  such  rewards  as  to  give 

Recompense  for  the  struggle  it  costs  to  achieve; 

If  domestic  security  bring  a  return 

Justifying  all  efforts  this  blessing  to  earn: 

If  possessions  like  these  make  communities  great, 

Let  us  plant  them  with  care  in  the  soil  of  the  state, 

And  not  let  them  be  choked  with  vile  demagogue-weeds, 

Nor  with  thistles  upsprung  from  war's  tempest-blown  seeds. 

v. 

Would  you  see  your  great  ships  in  pride  ploughing  the  .main, 
To  earth's  marts  afar  bearing  your  goods  or  your  grain? 
Would  you  still  keep  the  factory  turning  the  wheel, 
With  its  populous  hive,  for  the  land  working  weal? 
Would  you  keep  in  the  forges  the  fires  still  aglow, 
Where  the  work  of  a  myriad  Vulcans  they  do? 
Would  you  speed  the  plow  bringing  to  blossom  the  fields, 
Whose  soil  fertile  grain  golden  with  magic  strength  yields? — 
Then  for  peace  be  your  words,  fellow-countrymen  mine, 
And  give  efforts  and  prayers  for  its  blessings  benign. 


PEACE.  249 

VI. 

And,  O,  servant  elect  of  the  mild  Prince  of  Peace, 
Of  ensanguined  haranguings  grant  us  a  surcease! 
Mingle  not  with  the  tidings  in  Galilee  told 
The  red  talk  of  the  foray;  the  ears  of  your  fold 
Feed  no  longer  with  tales  of  the  barracks;  but  strike, 
Let  me  plead  with  you,  some  higher  key — something  like 
That  the  Master  struck  when  his  entrancing  notes  thrilled 
Human  hearts  with  new  love  and  their  wild  tumults  stilled. 
Tell  again,  and  again,  and  again,  the  old  tale 
Of  the  cross  and  the  crown — that  will  never  grow  stale; 
But  relieve  us  from  preachments  that  breed  in  the  heart 
Passions  forming  of  Christliness  never  a  part! 

VII. 

.   .   .   How  sweet  once   more  was  work !     Of  the  plow  Mark 

grasped  hold, 

As  of  hands  of  some  friend  of  the  dear  days  of  old; 
And  the  fork,  and  the  rake,  and  the  hoe,  and  the  spade, 
Charm  magnetic  had  when  his  hands  on  them  were  laid. 
And  he  breathed  the  fresh  breath  of  his  oxen  and  cows, 
And  the  perfume  of  health  of  his  stacks  and  his  mows;  ' 
And  his  frame  felt  new  vigor  in  every  part, 
While  his  blood  sent  new  strength  to  his  swift  throbbing  heart. 

VIII. 

True,  his  colts  and  his  calves  had  away  from  him  grown, 

As  life's  duties  severe  they  had  entered  upon; 

And  these  old  pets  surveyed  him  with  grave,  mature  eyes, 

Which  said:     "  Friend,  the  fond  past  far  behind  us  now  lies; 

And  caresses  of  yesterday's  golden-eyed  morn 

Have  no  place  in  to-day's  actualities  stern." 

Old  acquaintanceships  had  to  be  formed  thus  anew, 

(Something  with  human 'creatures  we've  often  to  do;) 


250  HELEN. 

But  new  pets  came  to  take  places  left  by  the  old, 
And  these  always  were  waiting  in  every  fold. 

IX. 

Of  his  bay  beauties,  one  had  been  under  him  shot, 
When  a  ball  scarred  his  brow,  in  the  last  battle  fought, 
And  the  other  with  honor  retired  on  full  pay, 
For  brave  services  rendered  in  love's  tender  day. 

x. 

Strength  electric  from  handling  his  horses  he  drew, 
A  constituent  part  of  their  daily  life  grew, 
And  the  sentiment  from  their  companionship  caught 
With  which  Israel's  prophets'  sublime  strains  are  fraught, 
That  the  horse,  as  a  creature,  is  so  near  divine 
As  to  miss  but  by  language  the  reasoning  line. 

XI. 

His  hands  deeply  he  thrust  into  Nature's  great  breast, 

And  therefrom  drew  the  secrets  the  dame  closely  pressed; 

And  he  learned  what  a  prodigal  mother  she  was 

To  him  when  he  but  halfway  regarded  her  laws; 

Learned  that  whether  the  harvest  fields  laugh  or  they  weep, 

Depends  greatly  on  faith  that  with  Nature  we  keep; 

Learned  that  earth  grows  faint,  hungry,  and   famished,  like 

men, 

And,  her  hunger  appeased,  glows  with  vigor  again  ; 
Learned  that  earth  becomes  easily  jealous;  craves  care, 
Such  as  woman  craves;  pouts  if  she  has  not  her  share; 
But  that  when  such  fond  care  is  upon  her  bestowed, 
She  a  synonym  is  of  supreme  gratitude, 
And  with  more  than  the  measure  we  mete  out  to  her 
Yields  she  when  we  the  springs  of  her  gratitude  stir. 


,     PEACE.  251 

XII. 

Through  life's  variant  trials  of  head  and  of  heart 

As  our  progress  we  make,  of  our  time  no  small  part 

Is  devoted  to  burying  dreams  that  are  dead, 

Which,  alive,  on  the  heart's  strongest  tissues  were  fed  ; 

And  we  lay  them  away  in  the  earth's  peaceful  breast, 

Where,  'neath  daisies  we've  tenderly  planted,  they  rest. 

XIII. 

Mark  had  buried  the  dreams  of  his  youth  in  the  soil 
Of  the  farm  that  had  blossomed  beneath  his  hard  toil; 
And  he  stood  in  reality's  sunshine,  awake 
To  all  influences  that  life  practical  make. 
Thus  existence  subjective  to  him  ceased  to  be, 
And  objective  became  to  a  tensive  degree  ; 
While,  a  tenant  content  of  the  present,  he  paid 
Unto  Caesar  the  just  tribute  due  him,  and  made 
All  things  round  him  conform  to  his  real-life  code  ; 
So  no  ghosts  of  dead  days  round  his  premises  strode. 

XIV. 

Among  other  dreams  he  had  thus  sepultured,  lay 
That  of  art.     From  the  soul  dulling  moil  of  to-day 
The  ideals  of  his  yesterdays  tremblingly  shrank, 
And,  crushed  under  the  heels  of  utility,  sank. 
Thus  the  echoes  that  through  all  the  years  had  been  borne 
Of  the  old  Doctor's  dictum  in  life's  clouded  morn — 
Echoes  sacred  to  Mark  since  that  gray,  revered  head 
On  the  fresh  field  of  fight  had  lain  low  with  the  dead — 
These,  together  with  his  strangely  forced  quest  for  pelf, 
Let  his  once  so  loved  palette  still  mould  on  the  shelf. 
He  seemed  grimly  determined  to  finish  the  task 
Broken  off  by  the  war — seemed  resolved  not  to  bask 


-52  HELEN. 

In  the  light  of  the  once  so  loved  Beautiful,  till 

He  had  brought  all  his  efforts  and  strength  to  fulfill 

What  now  shaped  itself  into  a  duty;  and  so 

Idly  ran  on  the  years,  while  the  ebb  and  the  flow 

Of  life's  tide  no  event  signalized  which  betrayed 

That  for  him  human  happenings  one  issue  made 

Higher  than  those  they  make  for  the  dull-witted  clod 

Whose  thoughts  spring  in  and  mingle  with  his  native  sod. 

xv. 

This  the  phase  Mark's  course  showed  in  the  word's  daily  strife. 
Was  it  all  that  was  left  of  his  once  yearning  life? 
Were  there  no  cords  remaining,  which,  struck  tenderly, 
Would  resound  with  the  music  that  once  used  to  be? 
If  there  were,  in  abeyance  so  closely  they  lay, 
That  they  never  were  heard  in  the  blare  of  the  da"y. 

XVI. 

If,  perchance,  in  the  soft  hush  of  night,  there  were  strains 
Ringing  through  his  heart's  halls,  whose  rekindling  refrains 
Thrilled  his  being,  and  for  a  duration  brief  warmed 
Into  life  the  sweet  influences  that  once  formed 
The  aurora  of  tenderer  seasons,  occult  were  the}'  kept, 
And  in  whisperings  low  through  his  soul-chambers  swept, 
Fleeing  swiftly  when  showed  the  first  flush  of  the  dawn, 
To  earth's  interests  beckoning  him  sternly  on. 


CANTO  SECOND. 


POLITICS. 


I. 

There  was  one  trait  in  Mark,  truth  compels  me  to  say, 
Which  was  not  at  all  in  the  American  way, 
And  betrayed  a  sad  lack  of  the  patriot  fire 
Which  within  the  Columbian  breast  feeds  desire 
For  political  honor  and  profit.     With  youth, 
And  with  spirit,  and  prestige,  and  pride,  in  good  sooth 
It  was  strange  that  he  no  cacoethcs  should  have 
For  disporting  upon  the  political  wave. 
Though  endowed  not,  like  Rolfe,  with  the  qualities  true 
To  win  over  hoi  polloi,  in  some  points  of  view 
He  attracted  the  favor  of  leaders  who  ' '  stood 
On  the  battlements  guarding  the  commonwealth's  good," 
(Which  means  keeping  unbroken  one's  own  party  lines. 
And  defeating  the  opposite  party's  designs.) 
He  was  young,  he  had  fought  for  his  country,  and  bled, 
And  had  no  party  record  which  over  his  head 
Could  be  brandished  in  case  of  the  use  of  his  name 
As  a  torch  to  light  others  to  partisan  fame. 

ii. 

A  political  canvass  was  just  taking  form. 
And  the  campaigning  glow  was  beginning  to  warm 
The  old  veterans  who  at  the  office  crib  fed, 
And  to  party  devoted  hands,  lungs,  heart,  and  head. 


254  HELEN. 

III. 

As  Mark  sat  on  his  porch,  on  a  dull  afternoon, 
While  the  drowsy  air  seemed  with  the  warblers  in  tune, 
That  were  lazily  singing  their  songs  in  the  boughs 
Of  the  trees  he  had  planted  in  life's  pregnant  pause, 
A  committee  presented  themselves  at  the  farm, 
In  such  force  as  to  bring  to  his  breast  some  alarm, 
Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  no  weapons  they  bore, 
Save  their  walking  sticks,  and  that  each  face  a  smile  wore. 
.   .   .   He  arose  to  receive  them,  with  deference  due, 
Having  no  premonition  of  \vhat  was  in  view. 

IV. 

The  committee  were  chosen  with  care  from  among 

The  choice  spirits  the  party  contained.     Part  were  young, 

With  the  sap  of  life's  spring  flowing  fresh  through  their  veins; 

Part  were  old,  with  experience's  furrows  and  stains 

On  their  weather-worn  features  and  forms;  but  each  one 

Was  a  true  representative  of  the  haul  ton 

Of  the  party  in  Mark's  bailiwick  ;  and  the  whole, 

When  assembled  together,  accordant  in  soul, 

And  in  purpose  and  action,  presented  a  front 

Of  political  influence  he  was  not  wont 

To  encounter  in  his  retired  sphere. 

V. 

Leading  on 

This  legation  so  truly  imposing,  was  one, 
Mellow-ripe  as  to  years,  full  of  stomach,  with  eyes 
Round  and  owl-like,  which  looked  preterhumanly  wise, 
As  across  the  broad  bridge  of  a  huge,  pulpy  nose 
They  glanced  out  o'er  the  public,  for  whose  good  to  pose 
Was  the  life-occupation  of  this  man  of  note, 
Whose  red  face,  heavy  chin,  spacious  cheek,  and  craned  throat 


POLITICS.  257 

Showed  capacity  ample  to  jealously  guard 

The  dear  people's  preserves — for  a  proper  reward. 

VI. 

The  committee  had  chosen  this  man  as  their  chairman, 

Because  he  stood  high  as  a  partisan  "  square"  man; 

The  "  straight  ticket"  voting;  at  polls  watching  ever; 

In  heat  or  cold,  early  or  late,  tiring  never; 

The  old  party  loving,  year  in  and  year  out; 

Never  harboring  scruple;  o'ercast  by  no  doubt; 

Never  known  in  all  years  to  be  absent  from  caucus; 

Predicting  great  triumphs,  like  salty  old  Glaucus. 

.   .   .  This  Chairman  the  following  speech  made  to  L,andis, 

Which  "  from  our  reporter's  notes"  faithfully  penned  is: 

VII. 

"  General,  say!     The  boys  hev  ben  thinkin',  right  smart, 

That  yer  name  to  our  deestrick  would  give  a  fresh  start, 

Which  it  needs.     We're  agoin'  to  run  ye  fur  office! 

We'll  put  ye  through  on  yer  war  record.     The  trophies 

Of  battle  we'll  show,  an'  yer  scars.     That  thar 

On  the  side  o'  yer  face,  nigh  yer  temple,  ye  w'ar — 

That's  as  good  as  a  dozen  mass  meetin's  fur  us: 

Fur  they'll  have  ter  trot  out  a  loud  patriot  cuss 

On  the  oppersite  side  to  trump  that  kind  o'  keerd; 

But  they've  got  nary  one  of  which  we  are  afeerd. 

We'll  bring  out  the  old  flag,  with  a  whoop,  an'  a  shout, 

An'  a  rush,  that  can't  fail  ter  completely  clean  out 

Our  opponents,  an'  so,  don't  ye  see,  git  the  whole 

Of  the  deestrick' s  fat  offices  in  our  control. 

We  perpose  to  start  low  in  the  scale:  here's  a  call 

Fur  the  State  legislatur  to  run  this  next  fall. 


258  HELEN. 

This  is  on'y  the  fust — the  beginnin',  my  friend; 
An'  thar's  no  knowiii'  whar,  sir,  an'  when  it'll  end. 
Ef  ye  watch  sharp  yer  corners,  be  keerful,  air  don't 
Make  no  blunders  nur  balks,  keep  yerself  to  the  front, 
Vote  accordin'  to  corkis,  stand  up  to  the  rack, 
An'  don't  git  nary  princerpul-cricks  in  yer  back, 
Why,  Mark,  we'll  make  a  man  o'  ye!     On'y  be  straight, 
An'  we'll  carry  ye  through,  ef  Old  Knick's  at  the  gate!" 

VIII. 

Landis  listened  with  patient  respect,  until  through 

Was  the  Chairman  with  his  terse  and  cogent  review 

Of  political  manhood's  essentials;  then  said: 

"  Friends  and  neighbors,  I  heartily  thank  you.     I've  read 

The  request,  very  flattering,  here  made  of  me, 

That  I  stand  as  your  candidate;  yet,  while  must  be 

Ever  dear  to  1113-  heart  the  kind  favor  of  friends, 

I  must  say  to  you  frankly,  that  I  have  no  ends 

Such  as  would  be  subserved  by  accepting  this  call, 

And  must  therefore  decline,  again  thanking  you  all. 

I  regret,  Mr.  Chairman,  that  I  cannot  grant 

Your  desire;  but.  sincerely,  no  office  I  want." 

IX. 

— "Whafs  thatf"  bolted  the   Chairman,    when  Landis  had 

paused, 

Whose  last  words  poignant  pain  to  his  spirit  had  ca vised; 
"  Won't  run?     Don't  want  no  office?     Why,  is  the  man  mad? 
Better  'pinion  o'  you,  neighbor  Mark,  had  I  had!" 

x. 

The  committee  en  masse  rose,  and  one  moment  gazed 
At  the  General,  shocked,  pained,  disgusted,  amazed; 
And,  while  sadly  bewildered,  aghast  standing  there, 
— The  truth  naked  I  tell — each  particular  hair 


POLITICS.  259 

Of  each  dumb-struck  committeemaii  stood  stiff  and  hard, 

Like — like  quills — like 

O,  Avon's  and  Nature's  great  bard! 

From  thy  tomb  in  old  Stratford  come  forth,  and  give  me, 
What  my  muse  hath  denied  me,  a  new  simile. 
To  set  forth  the  strange  compound  of  wonderment,  pain, 
Fond  regret,  sorrow,  sympathy,  scorn,  and  disdain, 
Friendly  chiding  and  bitter  contemning,  all  blent 
And  commingled  in  one  look  supreme  and  intent, 
In  our  average  national  visage  discerned, 
Turned  upon  a  man  who  ne'er  for  office  hath  yearned! 

XI. 

But,  "  eternal  sprang  hope"  in  that  old  Chairman's  breast; 
And  he  could  not  believe  that  a  life  with  such  zest 
Should  be  lost  to  the  party.     He  rallied  again, 
And  appealed  to  Mark  L,andis  in  this  fervent  strain, 
In  which  utilitarian  ethics  combined 
With  political  sense  of  the  earthiest  kind: 

XII. 

"  Take  a  feller's  advice  in  the  party  grown  gray; 

Who  has  seen  reppertations  rise  up  an'  decay, 

L,ike  the  mushrat  bogs  dottiii'  our  sloughs;  seen  upstarts 

Shoot  forth,  run  their  short  race,  an'  fade  out,  like  spring  warts 

•On  these  tough  hands  o'mine!      Hear  an  old  'un  who's  .seen 

Pollivvog  politicians  their  pools  wiggle  in 

Fur  a  few  sunny  days,  an'  then  dry  up  in  mud! 

Heed  a  chap  who  has  chawed  the  perlitical  cud! 

Don't  ye  let  this  smart  chance  yer  young  fingers  slip  through — 

This  prime  hour  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines  fur  you! 

'Twon't  shine  allers,  my  boy,  as  it'sshinin'  terday: 

Popperlarity's  dark  ekernoctial  yer  way 


200  HELEN. 

May  sweep  past;  then  ye' re  down,  'way  down,  flat  on  yer  back; 
An'  in  pollertics,  mind,  thar's  no  gainin'  los'  track. 
While  the  yumur  the  changeable  public  is  on, 
To  pay  you  up  in  full  for  yer  sojer-work  done, 
Take  all  you  can  git  clamps  on,  an'  stow  it  away, 
'Ginst  what  comes  to  the  best  on  us — some  rainy  day. 
Reckin  twic't!     This  refushal  with  which  ye  have  met  us 
Take  back!  Why,  man,  we1  II  send  ye  tcr  Congress,  'f ye' II  let  us!" 

XIII. 

And  the  Chairman  paused,  stood  off  at  arm's  length,  and  bent 

On  Mark  Landis  a  look  most  impressive,  which  went — 

Or,  at  least,  was  intended  to  go — to  his  soul; 

Such  a  look  as  meant  this,  if  my  pen  can  control 

Words  sufficient  to  give  it  a  frame:     That  to  him — 

To  him,  L,andis — was  offered  what  not  cherubim, 

Seraphim,  nor  archangel,  can  e'er  overpraise; 

What  no  bard  of  earth  truly  can  sing  in  his  lays; 

A  supreme,  rare  felicity,  only  bestowed 

On  the  brave,  and  the  pure,  and  the  great,  and  the  good; — 

That  to  him  had  been  proffered,  in  that  prize  held  forth, 

Something  far  beyond  gold  thrice  refined  in  its  worth; 

Fruitage  such  as  no  islands  of  tropic  seas  yield; 

Nectar  never  for  gods  on  Olympus  distilled. 

XIV. 

To  the  true  politician,  the  popular  branch 

Of  our  Congress  is  Heaven;  and  he  who  is  staunch, 

"  Square",  and  faithful  to  party,  may  cherish  the  hope 

Thither  some  golden  day  to  be  vote-wafted  up. 

All  above  this  position  is  but  degree  glory, — 

All  are  angels  there,  sitting  in  Heaven's  first  story. 


POLITICS.  261 

xv. 

But  the  General  was  so  far  lost  to  all  sense 
Of  the  Chairman's  outline  of  supreme  opulence, 
That  he  most  sacrilegiously  this  to  him  spoke, 
Which  well  nigh  his  susceptible,  tender  heart  broke: 

XVI. 

"  Mr.  Chairman,  I  deem  it  more  honor  to  till 

My  farm  here,  if  I  shall  till  it  well,  than  to  fill 

The  position  of  Congressman,  even.     There  lies 

In  the  gift  of  the  people  no  office  I  prize; 

And  as  long  as  calm  reason  shall  sit  on  her  throne, 

Just  so  long  will  Mark  L,andis  his  soul  call  his  own. 

Should  I  e'er  see  the  time,  'neath  the  smiling  of  fate, 

When  a  man  can  take  office  for  good  of  the  state, 

And  not  pledged  to  sink  honor  and  soul  in  the  dust, 

I  should  proud  be  to  hold  a  position  of  trust; 

But  ere  that  time  shall  come,  Mr.  Chairman,  your  head 

And  mine  will  in  their  last  and  long  rest  have  been  laid. 

I  doubt  not  that  'twill  come  in  the  slow  rolling  years, 

But  our  tales  will  be  told  ere  its  day-star  appears. 

XVII. 

"  And  again:  bear  in  mind,  'twas  no  bargain  I  made, 
No  mean,  cool,  calculating,  sharp  patriot-trade, 
Entered  into  between  Government  and  myself, 
Whereby  I,  for  political  vantage  and  pelf. 
Promise  made  to  defend  it.     No!     If  I  was  leal 
To  the  nation  protecting  my  life  and  my  weal, 
It  were  venal  to  lay  any  claim  to  reward 
For  but  doing  my  duty  by  drawing  my  sword. 
Should  I  ever  bring  down  my  own  manhood  so  low 
As  my  wounds  to  the  public  to  set  up  for  show, 


«<»  HELEN*. 

Like  the  mendicant  cripples  who  sit  on  the  street 
And  from  all  passers-by  coppers  meekly  entreat, 
I  were  then  subject  fit  for  my  country's  contempt, 
Not  her  trust.     Whosoe'er  would  a  citizen  tempt 
To  so  rank  an  abasement  of  manhood,  deserves 
To  be  crushed  by  the  mean  part)'  spirit  he  serves; 
And  no  man  I  esteem  to  be  longer  my  friend 
Who  would  hold  out  to  me  so  ignoble  an  end!" 

XVIII. 

This  the  theme  set  at  rest,  most  effectually, 

And  thenceforth  Mark  from  like  importunings  was  free; 

For  a  man  holding  such  sentiments  is  the  one, 

Of  all  mortal  men  under  enlightenment's  sun, 

Whom  professional  patriots  least  can  abide. 

Thus,  while,  flushed  with  his  fame,  Mark  was  still  in  the  tide 

Of  world -favor,  he  in  the  political  zone 

Was  accorded  a  most  "  severe  letting  alone.' 


CANTO  THIRD. 


OPINION. 


I. 

As  the  months  and  the  seasons  trooped  by,  Landis  showed 

Not  a  sign  of  relaxing  the  efforts  bestowed 

On  his  farm  work — such  efforts  as  all  energies 

Of  his  nature  enlisted.     By  no  slow  degrees 

His  soft  hands  became  hard,  rough,  and  horny  again, 

And  his  fine  features  bronzed;  and  the  deep,  honest  stain 

Of  farm  life  the  devotion  bespoke  that  he  gave 

To  this  mistress,  which  people  said  made  him  its  slave. 

— "  Far  from  that!     'Twas  his  bride,  and  he  loved  it,  as  wife 

Can  be  loved  who  makes  sweet  the  experience  bitter  of  life. 

It  was  all  the  bride  now  he  dreamed  ever  to  wed." 

This  was  to  an  inquisitive  neighbor  once  said, 

II. 

But  the  dreams  of  his  neighboring  feminine  friends 
Did  not  tall)-  at  all  with  his  own.     They  had  ends 
And  planned  schemes  for  him,  which  were  all  sadly  frustrated 
By  his  purpose  declared  of  remaining  unmated. 

in. 

Over  him  had  the  Sewing  Society  watched, 
Like  a  sitting  hen  over  her  chickens  unhatched. 
At  one  afternoon's  full-quorumed  heathen-work  bee, 
Mark  was  sandwiched  between  the  poor  pagans  and  tea: 


204  HELEN. 

Neatly  then  was  our  farmer  transfixed  on  a  spit, 
Shifted  over  and  done  to  a  turn,  and  made  fit 
For  a  meal  for  those  cannibals  for  whose  dear  sake 
These  sweet  saints  wrought  in  spirit  of  martyr  at  stake. 

IV. 

That  not  wholly  adverse  were  the  comments  put  forth 

On  our  hero  and  friend  by  these  workers  of  worth, 

Our  report  clearly  shows.     We  premise  at  the  start, 

That  a  score  or  more  took  in  the  plaudcrci  part; 

And  we  do  not  each  speech  by  itself  designate, 

But  leave  all  unassorted,  as  in  the  debate,— 

Negative  with  affirmative  mingling,  in  maze 

Which  a  well  ruled  debating  school's  chairman  would  craze. 

v. 
Thus  began  the  symposium  : 

' '  Horrid  the  shame, 

That  a  young  man  like  him,  with  a  nobly  earned  name, 
And  a  very  fair  fortune,  should  think  [thus  accenting 
This  word  in  true  feminine  style]  of  absenting 
Himself  from  our  pleasant  society  here, 
And  affect  to  play  hermit!" 

VI. 

"And  yet  he's  a  dear, 
Just  delightful  society  man,  if  one  only 
Could  draw  him  away  from  his  solitude  lonely." 

VII. 

' '  And  what  do  you  suppose  the  true  reason  can  be 
For  his  reticence  strange,  and  his  close  privacy?" 

VIII. 

"  Disappointment  in  love,  they  say;  though  he'd  appear 
To  be  too  strong  of  will  to  let  that  interfere 
With  his  normal  digestion." 


OPINION. 
IX. 

' '  With  whom  is  it  said 
He  was  smitten  so  seriously?" 

"  One  who  is  dead, 
I  believe,  though  her  name  I  can't  just  now  recall." 

x. 

"  Dead  loves  linger  not  long.     Autumn  leaves  do  not  fall 
Many  times  on  their  graves. 

"And,  the  General  seems 

To  be  too  much  engrossed  in  his  work  to  nurse  dreams 
Of  the  dead." 

XI. 

"  Those  who  claim  to  be  better  informed 
Than  the  balance,  insist  that  his  heart  never  warmed 
Save  to  one,  and  that  she  walks  the  living  among, 
Not  the  dead;  to  which  love  he  has  e'er  closely  clung: 
In  a  word,  that  for  her  he  is  grieving  who  was 
Helen  Graves." 

XII. 

"  That  is  all  a  mistake!" 

"Why?" 

' '  Because 

She'd  have  had  him  twice  over,  had  he  ever  asked 
For  her  hand." 

XIII. 

"  Then  her  feelings  adroitly  she  masked; 
For  she  seemed  to  be  madly  in  love,  all  the  while, 
With  Dick  Rolfe." 

XIV. 

"  O,  well,  she  was  a  flirt!     In  a  wile 
Of  her  own  setting  she  was  most  handsomely  caught; 
And  'twas  good  enough  for  her:  the  minx!" 


260  HELKX. 

"  But  she  got 
A  good  husband,  withal." 

"  Why,  yes;  too  good  for  her, 

By  one  half.     One  can  scarcely  with  patience  refer 
To  her  long  stay  abroad,  under  plea  that  his  health 
Makes  it  requisite.     Bah!     She  is  wasting  his  wealth, 
Just  to  gratify  whims  of  her  own." 

"  That's  the  truth; 
Well,  she  always  7t>as  queer,  from  her  earliest  youth." 

xv. 
"  Have  you  talked  with  our  pastor  of  Landis?" 

xvi . 

' '  To-day 

We  were  speaking  of  him  in  a  casual  way. 
'  A  free  giver  the  General  is,'  Pastor  says; 
'  But  strange  notions  he  nurses,  and  singular  ways; 
And  I  fear  he's  not  orthodox.'  ' 

XVII. 

"Oh!" 

"Ah!" 

"  Dear!" 

"My!" 

XVIII. 

' '  And  wherein  seems  his  heterodoxy  to  lie3 
I  am  sure  that  he  used  to  be  sound  as  a  bell." 

XIX. 

"  There's  the  trouble!     'Tis  hard,  says  our  pastor,  to  tell 
What  his  actual  sentiments  are." 

xx. 

' '  Then  the  man 

Has  been  judged  without  hearing.     To  start  thus  a  ban 
From  sheer  negative  premises  based  on  mistrust, 
With  no  positive  knowledge,  is  grossly  unjust. 


OPINION.  2^9 

Though  to  our  catechetical  pastor  obscure 

His  theology  be,  clean  his  life  is,  and  pure; 

And  his  sweet,  earnest  faith  in  the  L,ord  of  the  years, 

And  His  word  and  their  promise,  too  patent  appears, 

To  permit  me  to  doubt  that  when  Yonder  is  called 

The  long  roster,  the  pastor  will  find  him  enrolled." 

XXI. 

Thus  the  dissonant  chatter  ran  on. 

"  By  the  way, 

You  know  what  people  have  been  accustomed  to  say 
Of  the  General's  health.     There's  no  doubt  he  has  been 
Quite  consumptive.     But  our  doctor  says  discipline, 
Regimen,  open  air  exercise,  wholesome  food, 
And  strong  will,  have  the  malady  fairly  subdued; 
So  that  that  plea  no  longer  forms  any  excuse 
For  his  not  marrying." 

"  'Tis  a  sinful  abuse 
Of  his  gifts." 

"  The  idea!  " 

"Absurd!" 

"He's  a  bear!" 

XXII. 

4  'No!     You  wrong  him  most  deeply.     Ungracious  nowhere, 

And  a  gentleman  always,  is  he,  and  so  true!" 

Said  an  elderly  lady,  who  had  hitherto 

In  this  gentle  word- scrimmage  had  nothing  to  say. 

She  instinctively  glanced  at  a  locket  that  lay 

On  her  breast,  which  a  miniature  picture  enclosed: 

This  a  young  soldier's  bright,  handsome  features  disclosed. 

To  one  near  her  who  sat  in  low  tones  she  explained, 

While  a  tear,  from  her  eye  dropped,  the  locket's  face  stained: 

XXIII. 

"  My  boy  loved  him  and  cleaved  to  him,  as  to  a  brother, 

And  died  at  his  side." 

'Twas  the  Corporal's  mother. 


CANTO  FOURTH. 


SURCEASE. 


I. 

By  the  Mediterranean's  shore,  hid  away 
From  the  penetrant  eye  of  the  world,  dreaming  lay 
A  quaint  hamlet.     The  busy,  tumultuous  tide 
Of  earth's  traffic  and  travel  its  precincts  left  wide. 
Thither  came  not,  incisive,  with  hum  and  with  buzz, 
(Which  the  soul  would  have  tried  of  the  good  man  of  Uz,) 
Human  bees,  wasps,  and  insects  of  kindred  antennae, 
Styled  tourists;  nor  thither,  to  seek  the  brisk  penny, 
Came  traveler  commercial . 

So  close  was  the  spot, 

And  so  still,  that  the  noisy  old  sea  half  forgot 
His  loud  talk  when  he  reached  its  calm  shore  through  the  bay, 
Where  the  eld- fashioned  fishing  smacks  lazily  lay. 
As  with  delicate,  exquisite  mantle  of  lace, 
In  far  looms  woven  daintily,  deftly,  the  face 
Of  the  landscape  with  vapor  translucent  was  veiled; 
And  one  might  deem  the  skirts  of  the  angels  had  trailed 
Along  hills  that  lay  fair  in  the  soft  southern  sun, 
And  nursed  fondly  the  dream  of  a  day  that  was  done. 

ii. 

This  far  nook  of  the  world  sought  two  mortals  oppressed; 
Hither  came  they  to  find,  what  both  sore  needed,  rest. 
For  I  trow,  Helen  Rolfe,  that  not  solely  for  him 
By  whose  couch  you  had  watched  till  o'er  brain  as  o'er  limb 


SURCEASE.  271 

Languors  stealthily  crept,  had  you  sought  this  retreat; 
But  that  you  craved  as  well  a  relief  from  the  heat, 
And  the  dust,  and  the  wearing,  and  anguish,  and  tears, 
Which  thus  far  had  been  yours  in  your  womanhood's  years. 

in. 

A  Norse  legend  in  Frithiof's  Saga  lays  down 
This  stern  rule  for  the  hero  who  fights  for  renown: 
"  Gain  to  viking  is  wound,  and  it  doth  him  adorn, 
When  on  forehead  or  breast  the  scar  is  to  be  worn. 
Let  it  bleed;  bind  it  not  until  daylight  be  done, 
Wouldst  thou  merit  'moiig  vikings  to  be  counted  one."* 
It  is  e'er  deemed  an  honor,  in  all  kinds  of  war, 
Not  to  faint  while  the  battle  is  raging.     The  scar 
That  most  proudly  adorns  hero's  brow,  cheek,  or  breast 
Is  the  one  where  the  weapon  most  deeply  has  pressed. 
'Tis  the  wound  that  bled  longest,  that  latest  was  bound, 
Which  will  ne'er  fail  to  be  with  the  most  glory  crowned. 

IV. 

This  is  true  in  life's  warfare. 

To  Helen  Rolfe's  heart 

There  had  come  wear}-  moments  when  blood-drops  would  start 
From  her  wounds,  and  when  spirit  and  flesh  were  both  weak. 
At  such  times  she  had  longed  some  safe  shelter  to  seek, 
Where  in  peace  she  might  lie  while  the  storm  raged  without, 
And  hear  naught  of  the  fighting,  or  triumph,  or  rout. 
She-  had  sometimes  yearned  strongly  once  more  to  go  back 
To  that  home  on  the  prairie,  away  from  war's  track, 
To  that  fond  parent  breast,  to  that  true  heart  which  beat 
But  for  her;  and  the  olden,  loved  hearth  were  retreat 

*See  Title-Page. 


HELEN. 

To  her  soul  the  most  gratetul.     But  ever  then  caine 
The  implacable  Conscience  the  judge,  and  cried:      "  Shame! 
In  the  front,  in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  wouldst  shrink? 
Better  now  and  here  into  oblivion  sink!" 

v. 

Yet  with  honor  at  length  she  had  left  the  hard  field, 
To  retire  till  her  woundings  and  bruisings  were  healed. 
And  would  healing  come  when  came  the  quiet  she  sought? 
To  this  question  she  scarcely  had  vouchsafed  a  thought. 
She  had  hoped;   she  had  trusted;  she  still  would  hope,  trust; 
But,  if  need  be,  her  way  could  yet  lie  through  the  dust. 

VI. 
,   .   .  Richard   Rolfe  made   a  hard  fight  for  life.     Hope  was 

strong; 

Life  was  dear;   and  his  system  stood  stoutly  and  long, 
The  importunate  summons  resisting,  which  seemed 
Issued  out  of  Death's  court. 

One  malignant  light  gleamed 

Against  hope.     At  the  portal  of  breath  the  ball  la}-, 
Like  a  panther  beside  and  assured  of  its  prey — 
This  reminder  grim  of  his  last  day  on  the  field, 
Where  his  brightly  ambitious  career  had  been  sealed. 
All  things  else  now  conspired  death's  design  to  defeat; 
All  things  else  stood  for  life — but  this  last  foe  to  meet. 
The  entire  separation  from  scenes  that  might  tend 
To  distraction  of  mind,  availed  vast  aid  to  lend 
In  the  .struggle.     The  quiet,  the  climate,  the  air, 
And,  above  and  be5'ond  all,  the  sweet,  tender  care 
Of  the  gentle,  and  faithful,  and  vigilant  wife, 
Guarding  well  all  the  avenues  leading  to  life; 
Reinforcing  with  prayer  all  the  efforts  of  breath; 
Standing  sentry  against  each  approach  of  pale  Death; — 


SURCEASE.  273 

These  were  elements  ranging  themselves  on  hope's  side, 
While  the  panther,  close  crouching,  their  might  still  defied. 


VII. 

The  weeks  wore  into  months,  and  the  months  into  years; 

And  still  hovered  life  there,  amid  doubts,  hopes,  and  fears. 

One,  three,  five  years  passed  by;  and  still  there  Richard  lay, 

Quiet,  trustful,  submissive,  beneath  Helen's  sway; 

Asking  not  to  return  to  his  own  native  land; 

Asking  only  for  rest,  and  the  presence  that  spanned 

All  the  radiant  sky  of  his  gently  watched  life — 

His  untiring,  all-tender,  all-dutiful  wife; 

Her  sweet  duplicate,  too — hope's  illumed  morning  star, 

The  first-born  child  of  spring,  the  fair  blossom  of  war, 

The  fulfilled  prophecy  of  contentment  and  rest, 

That  had  been  (for  dear  Madame  Marsile)  named  Celeste. 

VIII. 

I^et  it  not  be  thought  that,  in  this  far-away  clime, 
Helen  lacked  for  the  means  of  diverting  the  time; 
She  accustomed  herself  to  sketch  scenes  from  her  door; 
And  sometimes  she  reached  farther  in  nature's  great  store, 
And  among  the  near  hills  wandered,  bringing  back  thence 
New  enchantments  for  Rolfe,  whose  delight  was  intense, 
And  not  flattery-feigned;  for  his  love-lighted  eyes, 
In  confirming  his  lips,  spoke  his  o'erpleased  surprise. 
And  it  grew  to  be  one  of  the  joys  of  her  days, 
From  him  thus  to  wring  ever  fresh  springing  eye-praise, 
And  these  silent  encomiums  strove  hard  to  gain. 
For,  though  guileful  at  seasons,  the  eyes  cannot  feign 


274  HELEN. 

Overlong,  like  the  voice,  and  a  miracle-lie 

With  each  moment  renew,  to  keep  faith  in  supply. 

IX. 

These  exertions,  prolonged,  at  length  caused  her  to  feel 

Something  tinged  as  with  pride  in  her  augmenting  skill 

In  the  use  of  the  crayon;  which  by  degrees  served 

To  incite  her  to  higher  attempts,  and  her  striving  arm  nerved, 

And  enabled  her  nature's  expressions  to  catch, 

Giving  birth  to  desire  that  she  might  lift  the  latch 

Into  art's  antechamber  that  opens.     Ere  long, 

Then,  her  confidence  growing  sufficiently  strong, 

She  aspired  upon  canvas  the  sketches  to  place, 

Which  it  filled  up  the  years  of  seclusion  to  trace. 

x. 

The  world  truly  was  limited  she  had  to  please, 
And  by  no  means  a  captious  one,  ready  to  freeze 
With  its  icy  neglect,  shame  with  praise  insincere, 
Blast  with  preconceived  frown,  sting  with  connoisseur  sneer, 
Or  with  critic-claws  savage  disfigure  and  tear 
The  first  children  her  efforts  in  travail  should  bear. 
The  chief  censor  was  Richard,  and  he  the  most  stern; 
Next  came  large-eyed  Celeste,  with  her  critical  turn; 
And  to  supplement  them,  something  over  a  score 
Of  shy,  eye-straining  peasants,  who  passed  by  her  door, 
Bringing  wine,  grapes,  and  fruits  of  the  season  to  sell, 
And  the  news  of  their  little  earth-circuit  to  tell: 
And  these  made  up  the  whole  of  mankind's  mighty  heart, 
\Vhich  she  sought  to  touch  by  her  exertions  in  art. 

XI. 

— With  a  trifling  exception  or  two. 

There  was  one 
Whose  severity  was  not  a  myth,  and  whose  frown 


g  JS 

—          Qj  , 

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2  s  § 

i-  «  n. 

o.  ^s  a 
x    * 


eg  £  g 

c  «  5 

w  T3  ^3 

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•—  js  e 


«      £j     SJ 

t:  'S   a 


SURCEASE.  277 

Rested  often  on  efforts  the  rest  had  declared 

Without  flaw;   and  that  one  was  herself.     Roughly  fared 

Any  fault  or  defect  that  in  aught  she  had  done 

She  should  find, 

In  the  struggle-lined  years  that  were  gone, 
In  the  multiplied  trials  her  young  life  had  seen, 
Helen  ever  her  own  judge  severest  had  been; 
And  this  still  was  the  case. 

XII. 

But  again:  was  there  not, 

Running  through  these  strong, out-reaching  efforts,  a  thought, 
A  desire,  or  a  dream,  to  do  something  that  might, 
At  some  time,  meet  an  eye  whose  illuminant  light 
From  her  life's  joys  or  woes  had  been  shut  out  for  aye? — 
Something  which,  viewed  by  one,  might  induce  him  to  say: 
"  She  wrought  out  of  the  shadows  some  things  to  grace  earth; 
She  brought  out  of  the  trial  some  strength  that  had  worth''? 
Let  the  years  solve  the  question;   but  if  this  had  been 
An  incentive  to  her  in  her  self-discipline, 
When  she  struggled  in  art  as  she  struggled  in  life, 
No  less  surely  it  made  her  a  true,  helpful  wife. 

XIII. 

And  in  art  not  alone  Helen  interest  took. 
She  oft  mingled  among  the  Provence  peasant-folk, 
Gleaning  legends  in  their  softened  tongue  that  still  lived, 
And  their  soul  into  lays  for  her  husband's  ear  weaved, 
Which  with  aid  of  the  little  Celeste's  voice  were  sung; 
And  what  need  to  say,  rapt  on  these  ballads  he  hung? 
There  were  songs  of  all  days  in  the  Middle  Age  times 
Handed  down  in  the  measures  of  these  Romance  rhymes. 
The  strains  mainly  but  sounded  such  slumbering  themes 
As  the  world  has  forgot  since  it  gave  o'er  its  dreams: 


278  HELEN. 

The  charmed  tales  of  Crusaders  at  times  telling  o'er; 
Again  singing  of  Spain's  prolonged  strife  with  the  Moor; 
Anon  chaunting  of  days  when  the  Frank  ruled  the  age, 
And  lined  all  in  bright  gold  Europe's  historied  page. 

XIV. 

Richard  cleaved  to  one  ballad  that  Helen  thus  sang, 
Wherein  tender  romance  of  old  chivalry  rang, 
While  it  served  more  than  others  to  soothe  his  own  breast; 
And  thus  ran,  by  her  rendered, 


i. 
Of  true  love  hear,  that  was  tried  of  yore: 

There  lived  a  kuight,  in  the  olden  summers; 
A  strong,  sure  blade  at  his  side  he  wore; 

In  jousts  stood  ever  against  all  comers. 

ii. 
He  loved  a  maiden;  she  loved  him  well; 

He  rode  to  Palestine  'gainst  the  Paynim. 
Came  word  a  captive  the  brave  knight  fell; 

Fain  tke  maid  would  know  if  the  foe  had  slain  him. 

iii- 
She  donned  the  guise  of  a  troubadour; 

From  home*  and  friends  she  with  brave  heart  parted; 
Through  wearying  leagues  lay  her  sad  love-tour, 

While  she  tidings  sought  of  her  faithful-hearted. 

IV. 

She  reached  the  land  of  the  dear  Lord's  birth; 

She  neared  the  field  where  the  hosts  were  lying; 
With  a  fever -thirst  she  had  sunk  to  earth; 

Her  strength  fled  fast,  and  she  seemed  dying. 

v. 
Came  charging  by,  with  exultant  cries, 

A  troop  of  riders,  with  fierce  arms  mounted; 


SURCEASE.  27!) 

She  durst  not  look,  and  she  veiled  her  eyes; 
She  crossed  herself,  and  her  beads  she  counted, 

VI. 

She  laid  her  face  oil  the  parched  sand; 

She  breathed  one  player  to  the  Mother  Mary 
"  O,  let  some  knight,  if  I  in  this  land 

Must  die,  my  heart  to  my  own  land  carry!  " 

VII. 

Her  thirst  grew  great;    in  her  agony 
She  craved  the  spears  of  the  rushing  foemen. 

These  words  then  thrilled  her:    "  O,  not  for  thee 
The  lances  true  of  my  trusty  yoemen! 

VIII. 

''Our  Lady  Mary  hath  heard  thy  prayer; 

Thy  heart,  home-faring,  shall  be  my  burden ; 
But  next  mine  own  it  shall  rest  when  there: 

Our  bridal -bells  shall  thy  brave  faith  guerdon." 


XV. 

Between  tending  her  patient,  and  culling  these  lays, 

Whose  quaint  strains  served  to  soothe  and  to  sweeten  his  days, 

The  so  careful  instruction  bestowed  on  her  child, 

And  her  studies  in  art,  the  time  Helen  beguiled, 

And  filled  up  to  completeness;  and  never  a  day 

Since  her  head  the  first  night  on  Provence  pillows  lay 

Had  a  single  hour  heavily  hung  on  her  hands, 

Had  she  felt  at  all  irksome  her  close  exile-bands. 

XVI. 

In  the  simple,  hard  lives  by  the  fishermen  led, 
In  the  battles  they  fought  with  the  billows  for  bread, 
In  their  sorrows  and  joys,  Helen  could  not  have  failed 
To  take  interest.     Frequently  was  she  regaled 


280  HELEN. 

With  the  rhythm  of  songs  of  the  sea,  and  the  burdens 
Of  ballads  that  told  of  the  struggle-earned  guerdons 
These  toilers  won  there  on  the  strand  and  the  wave, 
These  toilers  so  hardy,  and  patient,  and  brave. 
Among  such  strains  was  rarely  heard  one  that  was  not 
With  devotion  the  truest  and  tenderest  fraught, 
Which  conduced  to  build  up  this  rude  folk  in  their  faith. 
Such  a  one  was  the  lay  of 


)  s     \A/i»eiir;. 


i. 
O',  say,  hast  thou  heard  of  the  fisherman's  ghost? 

If  not,  sit  by  my  side, 

And,  while  out  flows  the  tide, 
I'll  sing  thee  a  song  of  a  barque  that  was  lost  — 

ii. 
That  was  lost  in  the  years  that  shall  never  return, 

When  the  fisherman's  brow 

Was  not  clouded,  as  now, 
With  care  clinging  to  lives  burdened,  pinched  and  forlorn. 

in. 
In  those  years  vowed  a  fisher  an  impious  vow,  — 

Vowed  by  no  saint  adored. 

But  by  Judas  abhorred,  — 
To  make  draught  with  his  net  fisher  never  yet  saw. 

IV. 

Not  a  shade  of  a  cloud  heaven's  azure  vault  veiled, 

As  his  boat  sailed  away 

O'er  the  breast  of  the  bay, 
While  with  pride  overweening  his  false  bosom  swelled. 

v. 
And  along  the  shore  drifting,  immense  was  the  draught 

As  his  nets  in  he  hauled; 

Then  on  Judas  he  called, 
Praising  him  while  a  blasphemous  l>eaker  he  quaffed: 


SURCEASE.  281 

VI. 

"Good  Iscariot,  I  bless  thee!"    exultant  he  cried, 

As  his  shallop  he  veered, 

And  his  course  homeward  steered 
For  his  cot  by  the  bay  where  the  sea's  breakers  died. 

VII. 

.Still  no  cloud  in  the  sky;    but  the  fisher.  O,  where 

Was  his  barque  and  its  freight  ? 

Long,  ah!    long  did  they  wait 
By  his  hearth  his  return,  till  hope  died  in  despair. 

VIII. 

But  when  soft  lay  the  moon  on  the  bosom  of  night, 

Traversed  slowly  the  ghost 

Of  the  fisherman  lost 
Wonted  paths  on  the  strand  of  the  surge-singing  bight. 

IX. 

And  the  goodwives  they  say  that  when  winds  wildly  blow, 

If  they  cross  the  weird  path 

Of  the  fisherman's  wraith, 
They  can  hear  him  his  vow  by  Saint  Judas  renew. 


XVII. 

In  the  lives  of  the  peasant-folk,  tending  their  vines, 
And  their  barley  and  olives,  ran  scarce  such  hard  lines 
As  the  fishermen  knew;  and  it  gave  Helen  food 
For  reflection  the  deepest,  this  people  so  rude, 
Yet  so  candid  and  earnest,  to  study  with  care, 
And  their  joys  and  their  griefs  with  them  sometimes  to  share. 
She  partook  of  their  sentiments  as  of  their  cheer, 
And  was  charmed  with  their  manners,  unstudied,  sincere. 
Among  other  songs  gathered  from  them  in  her  trips 
Was  one  taken  by  her  from  the  singer's  own  lips, 
And  whose  pathos  unique  spoke  the  spirit  and  tone 
Which  proverbially  are  the  Provence  peasant's  own: 


HELEN. 


A  peasant  I,  I  know  no  leisure: 

I  work  from  dawn  till  darkness  falls; 
No  time  have  I  for  rest  or  pleasure; 
I  only  range  where  duty  calls: 

But  life  is  dear  to  me  and  mine, 
And  never  does  my  heart  repine. 

ii. 

Rises  my  wife  ere  light  of  morning, 
And  late  betakes  herself  to  rest; 
She  has  no  gems  for  her  adorning; 
Her  jewel  best  is  babe  at  breast: 

But  life  is  sweet  to  wife  of  mine, 
And  never  does  her  heart  repine. 

in. 

The  good  priest  in  the  gloaming  shrives  us; 
For  prayers  of  length  our  time  is  scant; 
Yet  from  devotion  need  ne'er  drives  us; 

Our  beads  we  count,  how  great  our  want. 
And  thus  grow  hearts  of  me  and  mine 
Content,  and  ne'er  do  we  repine. 

IV. 

Six  weans  have  I,  of  tender  ages, 

Each  one  worth  wealth  all  Provence  bears; 
Contain  not  all  earth's  written  pages 

Descriptions  of  such  charms  as  theirs; 

Life's  lore  I'll  teach  these  darlings  mine, 
And  lead  them  never  to  repine. 

v. 
Should  king  the  half  his  kingdom  offer 

For  these,  God's  gifts  I  hold  in  trust, 
I'd  spurn  with  scorn  the  gilded  proffer, 

And  keep  the  babes,  though  with  a  crust. 


SURCEASE. 


283 


No  alms  I  ask  for  me  or  mine, 
Grudge  no  man's  gold,  nor  e'er  repine. 

VI. 

The  dear  Christ,  who  for  us  bore  sorrows, 

Aids  me  my  burdens  all  to  bear; 
My  heart,  though  full,  no  trouble  borrows; 

We're  blest  through  His  blest  Mother's  prayer. 
Thus  fills  contentment  me  and  mine, 
And  never  do  our  hearts  repine. 


CANTO  FIFTH. 


SHADOWS. 


I. 

One  calm  eve,  in  the  crimson -and -gold  sunset  hour, 

Helen  saw,  as  she  sat  in  her  vine-covered  door, 

A  conveyance  drive  through  the  one  street  of  the  town, 

And  at  one  of  the  huts  something  gently  set  down, 

Which  her  quick  instinct  told  her  was  some  person  ill; 

And  she  hastened  to  proffer  such  aid  and  good  will 

As  one  might  to  soul  desolate,  faint,  or  forlorn; 

Sought  and  entered  the  hut;  and  there,  wasted  and  worn, 

But  preserving  the  impress  of  native  grace  still, 

Lay  the  love-hallowed  form  of  dear  Madame  Marsile. 

ii. 

"  Helen,  darling,"  she  whispered,  "  my  troubles  fade  fast; 
But  they  end  in  my  own  native  hamlet  at  last. 
I  have  come  home  to  die,  as  I  longed  e'er  to  do; 
And  my  death  will  be  sweetened  by  being  near  you. 
Remain  by  me,  ma  c/iere,  till  the  closing  scene  ends, 
And  my  eyelids  draw  down,  my  most  prized  of  all  friends!" 

in. 

X 

'Twas  a  labor  of  love — ah,  what  tenaer  love  now! — 
For  the  trial-versed  Helen  to  press  the  wan  brow, 
And  to  moisten  the  lips  that  with  fever  were  parched, 
The  hot  temple  to  bathe  which  the  burning  brain  scorched, 


SHADOWS.  285 

And  the  aching  head  pillow  upon  her  own  breast, 
Where  her  burdens  less  sorely  now  seemed  to  be  pressed ; 
For  in  face  of  the  sorrows  that  whelmed  this  rich  life, 
Lost  to  view  where  her  own  troubles  in  the  world's  strife. 

IV. 

While  attending  the  sufferer  pale,  as  she  lay 

In  the  shadows  that  deepened  with  each  passing  day, 

Helen  felt  to  the  task  consecrated  anew, 

Which  upon  her  the  years  had  imposed.     Doubly  true 

Was  she  now  to  the  vow  she  had  taken  when  earth 

Had  for  her  lost  its  sweetness,  joy,  music,  and  mirth, — 

When  the  hard  lines  of  duty  in  dense  gloom  were  drawn, 

And  her  sky  showed  no  traces  of  hope's  coming  dawn. 

v. 

.   .   .  Days  not  many  had  Madame  Marsile  lingered  there, 
When  a  messenger  viewless  from  realms  of  the  air 
To  the  lowly  cot  came  where  in  patience  she  lay, 
And  her  tempest-tossed  spirit  from  earth  bore  away. 

VI. 

The  last  words  that  to  Helen  her  dear  friend  had  said, 
WTere  these: 

"  Under  my  pillow,  at  rest  when  I'm  laid, 
In  my  native  Proveiifal  a  legend  you'll  find, 
Full  of  bitterest  sadness,  with  tragic  shades  lined. 
I  bequeath  it  to  you;  and  have  only  to  say, 
Ere  the  tide  of  my  weak  breath  at  last  ebbs  away, 
That  the  legend  but  shadows  the  dark,  troubled  sea 
Which  has  swept  with  its  waves  o'er  all  mine  and  o'er  me. 
O,  whatever  clouds  over  your  life  may  have  hung, 
Thank  your  God  that  you  listened  to  conscience  while  young; 
And  preserve,  though  your  future  with  sorrow  be  brimmed, 
The  bright  jewel  of  womanhood  ever  undimmed. 


28(5  HELEN. 

L,ower  never  the  standard  :  true  safety  lies  there  : 
Ocst  ma  triste,  dcmicre,  ardente  priere. " 

VII. 

When  the  poor  soul  no  longer  life's  tenancy  held, 
The  sad  manuscript  legacy  Helen  unsealed, 
And  translated  for  Richard ;  and  thus  the  weird  tale 
Her  voice  bore  as  bore  winds  the  sea's  bay -broken  wail 

Ueali)  eirja  irje    Virjirjcr. 

FROM  THE  PROVENCAL.* 

I. 

The  vintner  sat  by  his  thatched  cot  door  ; 
He  was  old,  and  bent,  and  wan,  and  poor. 
On  the  hillside  showed  a  saddening  sight — 
His  vineyard   struck  with  the  yellow  blight. 
'Twas  in  the  province  of  old  Garonne, 
The  mountainous  province,  whose  power  has  flown. 

n. 

The  sun  toward  the  hill-tops  was  sinking  low, 
But  the  valley  still  felt  its  reddening  glow, 
Which  over  the  variant  landscape  shone, 
And  filled  with  its  glory  all  Garonne. 

in. 

In  the  hush  of  that  silent  hour,  there  rode 
A  horseman  up  to  the  mean  abode. 
The  old  man  noted  his  kindly  mein  : 
A  gentler  presence  he  ne'er  had  seen. 
A  guest  he  seemed  'twere  a  joy  to  greet  ; 
Shrank  not  the  vintner  his  gaze  to  meet 

IV. 

"  Art  all  alone  ?"  asked  the  stranger  mild, 
"  I  have  nor  friend,  nor  wife,  nor  child." 


*The  Provencal  idiom  originally  extended  beyond  the  old  limits  of  Provence,  in 
Southeastern  France,  and  embraced  the  legiou  bounded  on  the  east  by  the  Atlantic,  on 
the  north  by  a  line  running  from  the  department  of  Gironde,  through  Dordogne, 
Crease,  etc.,  to  Savoie;  on  the  east  by  Italy,  and  on  the  south  by  the  Mediterranean. 


SHADOWS.  28  7 

'•The  bitterest  seemeth  thy  lot  to  be." 

"  My  days  they  are  full  of  misery." 

"Hast  thou  seen  nought  but  wretchedness?" 

"I  once  knew  truest  happiness." 

Then  said  the  guest  to  the  vintner  old: 

"I  fain  would  hear  thy  life-tale  told." 

"  Wilt  light  and  hit  on  my  threshold-stone, 

And  list  to  an  old  wight's  weary  croon?" 

v. 

The  sunset  rays  from  the  valley  fled, 
And  left  a  softened  light  in  their  stead; 
For  yet  on  the  mountain  heights  they  shone, 
And  gilded  the  hills  of  fair  Garonne. 

VI. 

The  guest  sat  down,  intent  and  still. 
The  old  man  chattered,  as  old  men  will, 
And,  soothed  with  a  listener,  gossiped  free, 
Becharmed  with  his  own  garrulity. 
He  wandered  back  to  the  days  of  eld, 
And  a  listener  intent  the  stranger  held. 

VII. 

"  I  once  had  a  wife,  who  was  fair  to  see, 
And  friends;  and  the  world  went  well  with  me. 
My  wife  had  the  blood  of  a  southern  race; 
She  had  great,  black  eyes,  and  an  angel-face. 
Her  long,  black  hair  had  well  been  meet 
To  wipe  the  dear  Redeemer's  feet! 

VIII. 

"Three  lovely  babes,  which  the  Virgin  blessed, 
In  turn  were  pressed  to  my  wife's  white  breast. 
In  three  glad  springs,  with  the  opening  flowers, 
Came  into  our  home  these  girls  of  ours. 
Jeannette  was  the  fairest  of  all  the  three, 
And  she  was  the  one  that  was  most  like  me; 
Lisette  was  dark,  with  an  eye  of  fire, 
And  she  had  her  mother's  love  and  ire; 


288  HELEN. 

Minette  was  the  gentlest  of  all  in  heart — 
Had  the  most  of  truth,  and  the  least  of  art. 

IX. 

"There  came  to  our  dale,  one  summer  day, 

A  tall  gallant,   with  a  bearing  gay: 

A  man  with  hands  not  hard  and  brown, 

But  as  soft  and  white  as  the  eider-down; 

Not  rough  in  speech  and  tone,  like  me, 

But  as  smooth  as  the  Provence  minstrelsy. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  my  dear  Mathilde; 

He  looked  a  look  through  her  soul  that  thrilled. 

He  dallied  long,  too  long,  by  her  side; 

He  told  her  legends  of  pomp  and  pride; 

Till  she  dreamed  a  dream,   new.   fond,   and  strange, 

Of  a  life  above  our  low,  dull  range. 

He  sang  her  a  strain  she  had  never  sung, 

Spoke  winning  words  with  a  flattering  tongue, 

And  breathed  a  tale  of  a  mansion  fair 

That  she  in  his  native  vale  might  share. 

She  lost  her  heart,  she  lost  her  truth, 

And  she  lost  the  honest  name  of  her  youth. 

She  left  her  bal>es;  she  left  her  race; 

She  left  all  hopes  of  Mary's  grace. 

With  the  light,   false  churl  my  sweet  wife  fled, 

And  I  know  not  now  be  she  quick  or  dead; 

But   de"ad  or  quick  though  the  frail  one  be, 

God  send  her  a  share  of  my  misery! 

x. 

"  My  babes  sore  needed  a  mother's  care, 
But  they  bloomed  in  beauty  bright  and  rare. 
One  was  a  lily,  graceful  and  tall, 
Beloved  by  few,  but  admired  by  all; 
One  was  a  rose,  in  sensuous  bloom, 
O'erladen  with  its  rich  perfume; 
A  violet  one,  in  naive  grace  bent, 
With  its  own  loveliness  content. 


SHADOWS.  289 


"Jeannette,  ashamed  of  my  low  degree, 
Made  base  conditions  with  quality. 
Lisette,  with  passionate  hate  imbued, 
Her  hands  in  vintage  of  crime  imbrued. 
Minette  wiles  treacherous  led  to  yield, 
And  now  she  lies  in  the  potter's  field. 

XII. 

"The  lily  drooped  'neath  scornful  eyes; 
The  rose  was  spotted   with  purple  dyes; 
The  violet  sank  in  the  vale  of  its  birth: 
My  babes  all  sleep  in  the  breast  of  earth. 
My  vines  are  withered,  my  wealth  is  flown, 
And  I  am  left  in  the  world  alone." 

XIII. 

The  vintner  ceased.     His  haggard  cheek 
Was  tinged  from  feelings  he  could  not  speak. 
There  came  a  gleam  to  his  dull,  filmed  eye, 
Of  the  fire  that  burned  in  the  days   gone  by; 
With  his  torn  blouse-sleeve  he  wiped  away 
Tears  strangers  there  for  many  a  day. 

XIV. 

Its  mantle  gray  had  the  twilight  thrown 
Over  host  and  guest  on  the  threshold-stone, 
For  the  sun  had  sunk  in   his  glory  down, 
Behind  the  hills  of  fair  Garonne. 

XV. 

In  a  kindly  tone  spake  the  stranger-guest: 
"  Methinks  thou  wishest,  of  all  things,   rest." 
"Thou  sayest  sooth,"  and  the  old  man  sighed. 
"My  name  is  DEATH,"  the  guest  replied. 
"Thy  grief  is  great:  go  thou  with  me, 
And  rest  and  peace  thy  meed  shall  be." 

XVI. 

The  vintner  crossed  himself  in  dread. 

"I  deemed  thee  a  friend!"  he  shuddering  said. 


290  HELEN. 

Quoth  genlle  Death:  "  As  a  friend  I  came, 
To  lift  the  load  from  thy  heart  and  frame: 
Break  they  not  yet.  I  will  go  my  way, 
And  call  for  thy  soul  some  wearier  day." 

XVII. 

Death  mused,  as  he  mounted  his  pallid  horse, 

And  rode  again  on  his  olden  course: 

"  In  all  the  years  of  my  earthly  round, 

A  drearier  life  have  I  never  found. 

Did  ever  a  welcome  my  coming  greet, 

Methought  twould  be  in  this  lone  retreat. 

But  past  my  ken  is  all  mortal  thought: 

Met,  I'm  not  wanted;  not  found  when  sought; 

Where  the  world  is  brightest  there's  most  unrest, 

And  life  seems  sweetest  where  death  is  best." 


VIII. 

Having  finished  the  tale,  Richard's  hand  in  her  own 
Holding,  Helen  thus  said,  in  a  sad,  tender  tone: 
"  O,  my  husband,  appalled  I  shrink  at  the  soul-dearth, 
Degradation,  and  anguish  this  legend  shades  forth; 
And  I  shudder  to  think  of  the  temptings  they  bring 
To  a  spirit  beclouded  with  care's  shadowing. 
When  we  see  the  thick  darkness  that  shrouds  other  lives, 
Let  us  murmur  not,  when  round  our  own  the  storm  drives, 
If  it  leaves  us  so  much  from  the  wreck  that  it  makes; 
If  it  drops  such  a  share  of  the  treasures  it  takes." 

IX. 

Richard  backward  looked,  over  his  ambitious  schemes, 
O'er  the  golden  horizon  hope  bathed  with. its  beams 
In  rich  years  of  his  prime,  and  on  years  wasting  now, 
And  saw  vanishing  all,  with  a  smile  on  his  brow; 


SHADOWS. 


291 


Then  he  said,  while  he  fervently  Helen's  hand  pressed, 
And  his  gaze  seemed  to  find  in  her  eyes  grateful  rest: 
"  Yon  are  better  than  all,  O,  my  wife,  and  my  child! 
While  to  me  you're  preserved,  I  shall  be  reconciled!" 


CANTO  SIXTH. 


BEATTV. 


I. 

So  the  years  journeyed  on,  as  they  will  journey  on, 
Gentle  reader,  when  your  work  and  mine  shall  be  done, 
And  our  hands  shall  be  folded  forever  and  aye. 
"  Which  is  old,  and  exceedingly  trite,"  you  may  say. 
Frankly  granted. 

But,  having  life's  grand  climax  seen, — 
Having  wrought  to  solution  the  problem  terrene,— 
This  conclusion  reached  wisdom-filled  old  Solomon, 
At  the  end,  that  "  there's  nothing  new  under  the  sun." 

ii. 

Stand  with  me  in  December,  and  gaze  at  the  trees, 
Leafless,  naked,  and  desolate,  whipped  by  each  breeze: 
Stand  again  in  June's  gladness — how  changed  is  the  scene! 
See  that  nakedness  covered  with  choice  robes  of  green ! 
'Tis  a  tale  told  by  nature,  as  old  as  gray  time, 
And  yet  fresh  as  the  airs  that  fanned  Eden's  sweet  prime. 
Could  we  wish  that  the  woods  should  forget,  for  a  change, 
Their  rich  emerald  toilet  some  spring  to  arrange? 

in. 

Listen  yonder,  where,  under  the  stars'  sacred  light, 
Two  souls  mingle  love's  first  affirmations,  and  plight 
Troth  till  death.     Their  hearts'  language  is  simple,   though 

grand. 
And  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  as  long  will  it  stand. 


BEAUTY.  23 

'Tis  the  same  olden   formula:      "  I  love;  love  me; 
Love  me  truly  and  only;  I  love  only  thee." 
How  trite  seems  the  fond  tale!    Yet  to  them  'tis  as  fresh 
As  a  world-waking  advent  of  God  in  the  flesh. 

IV. 

Harken  soft  in  yon  chamber,  .where  death  sets  its  seal 
On  the  mother's  one  child!     O,  what  balsam  shall  heal 
The  deep  wound?     Ah,  it  cometh,  in  message  as  old 
As  our  era;  and  yet  she  would  have  this  but  told 
In  the  simple  words  spoken  as  man  never  spake, 
On  the  cedar-lined  shores  of  Genessareth's  lake. 

v. 

Good  friend,  prithee,  scorn  never  the  old,  nor  the  worn. 
From  the  worn  womb  of  precedent  progress  is  born. 
"  Out  of  old  fieldes  cometh,  fro  year  unto  year, 
The  new  corn,"  quoth  the  "  morning  star"  singer  of  cheer. 
"  Out  of  old  bookes  cometh,"  likewise,  "in  good  fayth, 
"  All  new  science  men  lere."    Nothing  "  Dan  Chaucer"  saith 
Hath  a  meaning  more  pregnant  than  this. 

Old  and  worn 

Are  the  sunlight;  the  rainbow;   Orion;  the  morn, 
With  its  golden  aurora;  the  purpling  sunset; 
The  glad  moonlight;  heaven's  arch,  all  in  diamonds  set, 
Robing  night  in  the  glory  of  creation's  dawn. 
Worn  is  speech,  sweet  and  golden  as  Chrysostom's  own. 
\Vorn  are  truths  uttered  under  the  olive-trees'  shade 
By  the  Master,  of  time-seasoned  maxims  who  made 
A  sure  bridge  over  which  mortals  freed  might  be  borne 
From  earth's  crudeness  to  Heaven's  courts  olden  and  worn. 

VI. 

.   .  .  Yes,  the  years  journeyed  on.    To  Mark  Landis  they  passed 
Slowly,  wearily.     Still  his  attention  was  pressed, 


294  HELEN. 

With  an  ever-increasing  devotion,  upon 
The  bride  long  ago  chosen — the  sharp,  jealous  one, 
Who  had  found  him  a  tried  and  a  true  husband-man; 
And  her  bountiful  gratitude  now  overran, 
Giving  more  than  he  asked  in  the  day  of  his  zest, 
When  she  doubted  his  faith,  and  put  him  to  the  test. 
He  had  taken  front  rank  among  land-tilling  men; 
He  was  now  Farmer  Landis;  and  none  now,  as  then, 
Spoke  of  him  as  a  make-believe  farmer,  or  sneered 
At  his  soft  hands,  pale  face,  or  aesthetic-cut  beard. 

VII. 

With  good  reason!     For  years  a  round  dozen  had  run 
O'er  his  head,  since,  his  country's  work  faithfully  done, 
From  the  war  he  came,  bending  anew  to  his  task. 

VIII. 

"  And  where  was  his  tubercular  phthisis?"     You  ask? 
Tell  me,  where  are  the  thousand  and  one  theories 
Of  the  medical  wiseacres,  blown  on  each  breeze? 
Why,  I'll  prove  to  you,  friend,  if  you  have  any  doubt, 
That  you  have  meningitis,  or  typhus,  or  gout; 
Or  that  you  have  been  poisoned,  or  haven't,  or  have, 
Or  have  not,  just  now  one  of  your  feet  in  the  grave. 
Bring  a  case  in  some  court,  and  subpoena  therein, 
As  experts,  sundry  sons  of  old  Galen;  begin, 
By  some  shrewd  lawyer  stating  the  point  that  is  sought 
To  establish,  then  ply  them  with  questions  well  wrought 
In  the  smithy  juridical;  and  you  shall  take 
This  my  head  for  a  football  if  I  do  not  make 
Good  my  word. 

IX. 

"  Prove  all  things;  hold  fast  that  which  is  good.' 
Grand  logician  before  great  Agrippa  who  stood  f 


BEAUTY.  295 

Modern  magi  have  broken  thy  maxim  in  twain; 

And  they  now,  by  experiment,  simple  and  plain. 

And  stout  swearing,  prove  all  things,  and  hold  fast  to  none — 

Any  longer,  that  is,  than  till  sought  ends  are  won. 

x. 

They  will  "swear  a  man  into  the  grave,  then  be  sworn 
That  in  sweetness  of  life  he  laughs  dying  to  scorn. 
They  will  swear  that  he  suffered  a  torturing  death, 
A  slow  poison  with  measured  draughts  sucking  his  breath; 
And  then,  having  thus  "  done  him  up''  ghastly  and  grim, 
With  a  "presto"  will  smoothe  out  each  feature  and  limb, 
And  through  death-passage  peaceful  as  zephyr's  soft  kiss 
Testify  he  left  earth  for  the  regions  of  bliss. 
The  oesophagus  deftly  they'll  turn  inside  out, 
And  its  healthfulness  show  you  beyond  any  doubt; 
Then,  the  same  organ  shifting,  in  turn,  outside  in, 
Clearly  prove  it  as  foul  as  original  sin. 
To  the  depths  of  the  lungs  diving  down,  they'll  discern 
Horrors  dread  in  tubercular  shape;  then,  to  earn 
A  fat  fee,  observe  in  the  same  organs  the  flush 
Of  such  health  as  a  druggist  would  put  to  the  blush. 

XI. 

Old  Jack  Falstaff  declared,  to  clinch  one  of  his  tales, 

He'd  "  swear  truth  out  of  England";  and  Scripture  details 

How  the  wretch  Ananias,  sad  soul-wreck  who  made, 

"  To  the  Holy  Ghost  lied,"  in  a  real-estate  trade. 

But  experts  of  to-day,  to  prop  pleas,  faiths,  and  biases, 

Double-discount  fat  FalstafFs  and  false  Auaniases. 


296  HELEN. 


XII. 

A     LETTER     FROM     THE     CITY. 

MY  DEAR  LANDIS: 

I   know  you're  a  hermit  out  there; 

Though  we  find  you  in  here  (where  your  calls  are  too  rare) 

As  agreeable  as  one  could  ever  desire. 

And  the  object  of  this  missive  is  to  inquire 

If  you  could  be  induced,  for  the  nonce,  my  old  chum, 

To  emerge  from  your  cell  in  your  treasured  farm  home, 

And  a  service  perform  for  old  friendship's  sake,  such 

As  I  hope  would  be  troubling  you  not  overmuch. 

My  wife's  cousin  is  staying  in  }7our  neighborhood, 

Visiting  an  old  schoolmate.     Now,  will  it  obtrude 

Too  much  on  your  reserve,  to  ask  kindly  that  you 

To  our  friend  an  occasional  courtesy  show 

In  her  sojourn,  most  likely  monotonous,  there? 

.  .  .  My  wife  tells  me  to  say  to  you  that  Miss  Adair- 

That  is  she — is  engaged,  or,  at  least,  understood 

To  be,  her  fiance  being  just  now  abroad; 

So  there's  not  the  least  danger  of  any  mistaking 

Of  these  kind  attentions  of  yours.     Of  match-making, 

Thank  fate,  my  good  wife  is  as  free  as  of  robbery. 

This  scheme  is  no  mask,  Mark,  .for  that  kind  of  jobbery. 

The  visit  will  be  one  of  months,  I  believe. 

Now  let's  see  you  your  first  reputation  retrieve 

For  true  gallantry  .   .   .   But  you  were  ne'er  as  adept 

In  this  line  as  was  I.     To  your  studies  you  kept 

When  in  Florence,  oft  while  upon  Arno's  fair  tide 

I  was  riding,  alas,  as  I'm  wonted  to  ride 

On  life's  circumstance- tide  to  this  day. 


BEAUTY.  ^97 

Ah,  those  times! 

They  come  back  to  me  mellowed  like  hallowed  church  chimes. 
What  fine  castles  we  built  in  the  air  in  those  days! 
Flown,  all  flown !     What  then  cared  we  for  blame  or  for  praise? 
We  were  going  to  plant,  then,  new  standards  of  art, 
From  whose  principles  I  was  the  first  to  depart! 
We  were  right,  my  dear  fellow,  malgre  my  desertion! 
Had  you,  who  effected  my  early  conversion 
To  those  maxims  eternal  of  art  and  of  life, 
Kept  the  ranks,  I  should  never  have  paled  in  the  strife, 
But  have  fought  on  till  now,  and  have  possibly  won 
Something  smacking  of  fame,  which  thus  far  I've  not  done. 
.   .   .  Ghostly  shadows  of  youth!     Yourself  on  a  farm,  and  I— 
I  have  never  the  pluck  had  once  grandly  to  try! 
To  become  a  mere  drudge  is  so  easy  in  this, 
The  most  jealous  of  all  human  callings,  and  miss 
The  great  prizes  that  fame  is  bestowing! 

Old  friend,— 

The  one  censor  to  whom  I  would  ever  attend,— 
Leave  your  plow,  and  resume  here  the  palette  and  brush, 
And  let's  try  and  regain  what  we've  lost  in  the  rush 
Of  the  tide.     It  is  not  yet  too  late,  though  our  youth 
Lie  forever  behind  us.     We  still  have  the  truth, — 
That  shall  ever  be  young.     We'  11  grow  into  its  heart, 
And  baptize  ourselves  over  again  in  true  art. 
Do  not  laugh  at  my  fancies,  old  boy! 

...  Ah!  'tis  just 

As  I  feared!  Naught  will  do,  but  this  wife  of  mine  must 
To  this  note,  now  too  long,  add  a  postscript;  and  Heaven 
Alone  knows  how  long  that  will  be!  Always, 

TRELEVYN. 


298  HEI.KN. 

POSTSCRIPT.' 

As  a  hint,  he  has  left,  here,  but  small  space  for  me! 

What  I  wanted  to  add; — and  I'm  sure  there  need  be 

Not  so  much  ado  made  over  so  small  a  matter; — 

("  A  note!"  That's  like  man!  What  would  he  call  a  letter?)- 

.  .   .  The  truth  is,  a  postscript  is  often  the  cream 

Of  a  message;  'tis  like  the  last,  lingering  gleam 

Of  a  sunset — the  holiest  moment  of  day; 

Or  like  fond  farewells  spoken  ere  friends  sail  away 

O'er  wide  seas  for  the  years;  or  like  chorused  refrain 

Of  a  song;  or  the  hymn  of  the  reapers  when  grain 

Has  been  garnered. 

A  postcript  bears  home  to  the  heart 
Sentiments  only  meet  to  be  uttered  apart; 
Weaves  a  selvage  of  weft  that  true  sympathy  brings; 
Turns  a  faith-hem  to  guard  against  heart-ravelings; 
Takes  up  stitches  we've  dropped  in  the  knitting  of  life; 
Retrieves  wrongs  done  in  heat  of  the  world's  busy  strife; 
Reaches  down  into  depths  of  the  spirit,  and  there 
Plants  a  benison  tender  as  infant's  lisped  prayer; 
Rounds  the  turf  where  weeps  stricken  affection  afresh;         \ 
Pours  sweet  balm  where  care's  fetters  eat  into  the  flesh; 
Parted  friendship  recalls  to  hearts  sundered  through  years; 
And  for  love  mediates  through  smiles,  pleadings,  or  tears. 
Blest  be  postscripts! 

.   .   .   'Twasonly  a  word,  I  declare, 
That  I  wanted  to  add,  which  is  this:     Miss  Adair 
Has  for  horses  a  passionate  love.     On  this  head 
Nothing  further  to  you,  I  presume,  need  be  said. 
...  I  shall  join  cousin  Blanche  near  the  close  of  her  stay, 
And  learn  then  what  reports  are  returned  of  the  way 


BEAUTY.  299 

You  acquit  yourself  of  your  enjoined  gallantry. 
Until  then,  with  sincerest  regards, 

MRS.  T. 

XIII. 

Landis  winced  when  this  letter  he  read;  but  no  more 

Could  he  ever  have  faltered,  when,  during  the  war 

Came  for  duty  of  peril  official  behest, 

Than  now  hesitate  over  this  kindly  request. 

Twas  from  friends  that  were  olden  .from  friends  that  were  tried: 

This  sufficed;  and,  to  friends  never  false,  he  complied. 


XIV. 

Blanche  Adair  was  a  blonde.     Now,  faith,  this  is  to  say 

Little  more  of  my  new  character,  in  the  way 

Of  description,  than  merely  to  state  that  this  blonde 

Was  a  woman.     But  when  I  have  said  she  was  crowned 

With  a  head  of  light  hair  with  which  silk  would  compare 

But  as  commonest  wool  with  a  fleece  from  Cashmere; 

When  her  skin  I've  pronounced  so  transparently  white, 

That  the  blue  veins  lined  arms,  neck,  and  brow,  and  the  bright, 

Rare,  and  classical  beauty  of  form  and  of  face 

Set  off  with  such  effect  as  no  sculptor  the  grace 

And  no  painter  the  deftness  had  found  to  portray; 

When  I've  said,  in  her  soft  hazel  eyes  a  look  lay 

Which  was  laughter  that  into  sweet  sunshine  was  wrought, 

And  remained  there,  as  glowing  as  poet's  best  thought, — 

Some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  style  of  a  blonde, 

Who  her  jauntiest  habit  one  afternoon  donned, 

WTith  Mark  L,andis  to  ride,  who  appeared  with  a  pair 

Of  such  steeds  as  to  her  were  as  pleasing  as  rare; 


300  HELEN. 

While  her  gay,  "  just-too-lovely-for-any-thing"  hat, 
And  her  smile,  as  in  saddle  she  gracefully  sat, 
Gave  a  challenge  to  man  and  to  love. 

xv. 

Landis  thought, 

While  adjusting  her  boot  in  the  stirrup,  that  naught 
In  the  shape  of  a  foot  or  an  ankle  (that  he    • 
Should  have  happened  the  latter  to  note,  I  agree 
Is  a  pity  profound)  had  e'er  burst  with  surprise  * 

On  an  artist's  admiring  and  critical  eyes, 
In  life,  marble,  or  oil,  more  superbly  outlined. 

XVI. 

Yet  not  this  was  the  thought  dominating  his  mind, 

As  he  mounted  his  horse  and  they  galloped  away; 

But  on  days  he  was  musing,  when  one  just  as  gay, 

And  as  beautiful,  graceful,  and  bright  as  this  one 

By  his  side  thus  oft  rode.    .   .   .   How  the  years  had  since  run! 

XVII. 

— "  We  are  already  friends,  and  I  like  you  right  well!" 
Awoke  him  from  the  moment-brief  memory  spell; 
And  he  turned,  somewhat  shocked  at  so  frank  a  declarement, 
And  eyed  Blanche; 

Who  explained: 

"  My  warm  words  of  endearment, 

I  trust  you'll  perceive,  were  but  meant  for  the  horse!" 
.   .   .  'Tis  sufficient  to  mention,  that  in  the  whole  course 
Of  that  ride,  (or  of  any  one  afterward  taken,) 
Him  twice  from  no  brown  study  had  she  to  waken. 

XVIII. 

Landis  found  not  an  auditor,  like  Helen  Graves, 
Satisfied  to  be  borne  on  the  unresting  waves 


O     03 


e> 

*!  I 

u    to    « 

®    u    « 

«  J  * 
S^  S 

— *  M  _ 

•-       C      C3 


BEAUTY.  303 

Of  discourse,  stirred  by  breath  of  his  will  arbitrary; 
But  one  quite  disposed  to  start  currents  contrary, 
In  glee  watch  the  surgy  commotion  brought  on, 
And  then  pour  the  rich  oil  of  her  humor  upon 
The  aroused  and  tumultuous  billows  of  thought. 
Yet  ere  many  encounters  with  her,  he  had  caught 
The  true  trend  of  her  mind,  had  adapted  himself 
To  the  real  situation,  and  laid  on  the  shelf 
Metaphysics,  and  ethics,  and  prophecy  too — 
A  decidedly  prudent  and  shrewd  thing  to  do, 

XIX. 

For  of  times  that  shall  be,  when  the  great,  teeming  womb 
Of  the  future  shall  give  forth  its  young, — when  shall  bloom 
Next  the  century  plant  of  philosophy, — when 
Golden  wisdom  shall  be  made  incarnate  again, — 
When  on  magi  the  new  star  of  truth  shall  have  beamed, — 
Blanche  Adair  on  her  soft,  balmy  pillow  ne'er  dreamed; 
And  her  blue- veined  and  pearly -fair  breasts  never  heaved 
With  inspirings  from  things  of  to-morrow  received. 

xx. 

Of  the  earth  very  earthy  was  Miss  Blanche  Adair; 
But  likewise  is  the  rose,  with  its  blossoms  so  fair; 
And  likewise  is  the  mavis  that  sings  on  the  lea, 
And  the  brooklet  that  murmuring  runs  to  the  sea. 
If,  like  them,  she  breathed  only  the  breath  of  to-day; 
If,  like  them,  she  loved  earth,  with  its  taint  of  decay; 
Yet  like  them  she  was  fragrant,  and  rhythmic,  and  sweet, 
And  like  them  diffused  joy  where'er  wandered  her  feet. 

XXI. 

So  Mark  Landis  adjusted  his  speech  to  this  type 
Of  earth's  sentient  felicity,  real  and  ripe; 


304  HELEN. 

And  he  told  her  of  beauty,  as  artist  could  tell, 

And  talked  with  her  of  taste,  and  of  music's  charmed  spell. 

And  of  truth  in  the  concrete,  the  right  and  the  wrong 

Of  things  which  to  utility's  issues  belong; 

Of  fine  horses,  good  horsemanship,  cattle  of  blood; 

Of  things  current  in  that  no  wise  dull  neighborhood; 

Of  the  live  men  and  women  who  people  To-Day; 

Of  society  (quite  in  a  gossipy  way, 

And  so  much  so  that  Mark  with  himself  was  surprised, 

And,  from  all  that  she  had  by  her  friends  been  advised, 

None  the  less  thus  was  Blanche);  of  the  drama;  of  art 

(In  its  phases  objective);  and  eke  of  the  heart — 

Of  the  average  heart  human,  considered  as  one 

Of  life's  factors  commercial. 

XXII. 

And  here,  be  it  known, 

Mark  discerned  her  to  be  well-informed,  and  aufait, 
And  so  keenly  discriminating,  in  her  way, 
With  such  store  of  sound,  shrewd,  worldly  wisdom  indued. 
And  so  strongly  with  common-sense  ethics  imbued, 
That  he  found  himself  listening  oftener,  and  longer, 
Than  of  one  so  much  older,  and  wiser,  and  stronger, 
In  years,  mind,  and  purpose,  would  scarce  be  supposed, — 
More  especially  one  understood  to  have  closed 
\Vith  the  opposite  sex  all  relations,  and  drawn 
The  heart's  curtains  most  closely  and  carefully  down. 

XXIII. 

At  least,  this  was  the  view  which  the  gossips  all  took; — 
And  whoever  hath  found  on  this  earth  one  lone  nook 
Where  the  gossip  comes  not,  will  please  "rise  up  and  stand 
Until  counted";  for  if,  in  some  strange  clime  or  land, 


BEAUTY.  305 

Such  a  spot  there  may  be,  let  it  be  marked  with  gold, 
In  books  bound  all  in  pearl  let  the  story  be  told, 
And  in  far-sounding  strains  of  bard-laureate's  song, 
And  let  seraphs  in  azure  the  echoes  prolong! 

.   .   .  They — the     gossips,    not     seraphs,     nor     bards — said: 

"  'Twas  strange 

That  the  General  should  in  so  short  a  time  change 
From  recluse  to  gay,  spruce  cavalier;  'twas  to  pay 
A  poor  compliment  to  the  attractions  that  lay 
(If  he'd  had  keen  discernment)  here  at  his  own  door, 
To  chase  butterflies — and  such  a  thing, to  be  sure! — 
One  all  feathers  and  paint!     And  they  call  her  a  beauty! 
To  expose  such  a  jade  is  a  most  sacred  duty! 
Yet  that  he  should  be  caught  in  so  flimsy  a  net 
Is  a  marvel  the  queerest  one  ever  yet  met. 
Of  the  grave  and  the  giddy,  my!  what  a  sad  blending!" 

xxiv. 
..."  But  whither,"  my  muse  asks,  "  is  our  hero  tending?" 


CANTO  SEVENTH. 


RESIGNATION. 


Sfrje  pearl's  ]fer,tecasi. 

i. 
The  sea  sings  strains  of  mystic  meaning  ; 

The  weird  refrains  the  wild  winds  swell  ; 
But  sea  nor  wind  my  wish  o'erweening 

Accord,  and  me  their  import  tell. 

Then  sonl  of  mine  within  me  says  : 

"In  patience  wait  the  flower  of  days. 

ir. 
I  wait ;  and,  lo  !  a  guest  unbidden, 

Great  Nature,  in  some  silent  hour, 
Comes  to  my  heart,  in  gloom  long  hidden, 

And  grants  it  Pentecostal  power  ; 
And  thus  the  songs  of  wind  and  sea 
Are  rendered  to  my  soul  and  me. 

in. 
Yet  what  the  purport  of  their -message 

I  may  not,  in  words  spoken,  tell, 
Though  close  my  spirit  cons  each  passage, 

And  all  the  lays  my  heart  learns  well ; 
But  this  I  know,  and  this  I  sing  : 
Their  strains  peace  passing  utterance  bring. 

II. 

Thus,  upon  the  white  beach  of  the  storm-breaking  bay, 
Sitting,  watching  the  gay  fisher-boys  at  their  play, 


RESIGNATION.  ,'J07 

And  the  fishermen  mending  their  nets,  and  their  wives 
Gleaning  driftwood  from  wrecks,  (as  from  strewn  wrecks  of 

lives 

The  world  ever  is  gathering  driftwood  to  feed 
Fires  low  burning  of  lone  human  hearts  in  their  need,) 
Sang,  to  rhythm  of  power-spent  storms'  sobbing  waves, 
The  enlarged,  bettered,  proved,  fire-refined  Helen  Graves, — 
The  girl  still  in  the  woman  revealed,  and  the  soul 
Through  the  years  but  achieving  a  gentler  control, — 
Sang,  while,  lovingly  listening  there  at  her  side, 
Sat  the  dear  child  of  promise,  Celeste,  the  large-eyed: 
Who  thus  said: 

"  Darling  mother,  of  all  the  grand  strains 
Of  the  grandest  of  singers,  with  chorused  refrains, 
That  we  heard  in  Palermo,  or  Naples,  or  Rome, 
I  heard  none  like  the  dear  ones  I  hear  at  my  home. 
Yes,  of  all  the  sweet  singings  your  songs  are  the  best!" 
Thus  with  downright  truth  flattered  the  dark-eyed  Celeste. 

in. 

Surely,  this  is  110  longer  a  child's  voice  we  hear, 
That  so  soothingly  melts  in  the  fond  mother's  ear; 
And  so  thought  Helen  Rolfe,  as  she  close  to  her  breast 
The  bright  bud  of  developing  womanhood  pressed. 
"  Ah!  full  fast  does  she  ripen  'neath  this  southern  sun; 
All  too  soon  her  fledged  heart  will  its  flight  wing  alone; 
All  too  early  life's  lessons  her  soul  will  have  read; 
All  too  quickly  her  feet  love's  red  wine-press  will  tread; 
All  too  oft  will  her  spirit  the  bitterwort  taste, 
Springing  e'er  by  life's  wayside,  'mid  bloom  or  'mid  waste!" 

IV. 

Lightly  had  the  years  touched  Helen  Rolfe,  nestling  there, 
With  her  one  tender  charge,  and  her  one  tender  care, — 


308  HELEN. 

Nestling  there,  'neath  the  shelter  of  brown,  vine-clad  hills, 
Safe  from  world-breath  that  wears  and  from  world-ga/e  that 
chills. 

v. 

Richard  had  at  times  mended  so  strongly,  that  they, 
Convalescence  inviting,  rode  out  on  the  bay, 
And  rocked  him  on  its  breast,  in  the  fishermen's  boats; 
Then  made  longer  trips,  touching  at  charmed,  classic  spots 
On  the  shores  of  that  broad  mid-earth  sea  which  are  dear 
To  all  hearts  Europe's  dream  of  the  past  who  revere; 
And  'twas  during  these  jaunts  Celeste  heard  voices  sing 
With  whose  melody  magic  fame's  corridors  ring. 

VI. 

Helen  still  at  her  art  wrought;  nor  did  she  neglect 

Still  romances,  and  legends,  and  songs  to  collect, 

From  the  natives  as  well  of  Provence  as  from  those 

Of  yet  other  lands  through  which  the  storied  stream  flows 

Which  the  present  refreshes  with  cooling  waves  brought 

From  the  times  when  in  earnestness  men  wrought  and  fought, 

When,  though  working  and  fighting  in  shadows,  yet  they 

In  their  earnestness  left  lessons  rich  for  to-day. 

In  all  these  recreations  Celeste  had  a  part, 

Who  a  love  had  begun  to  develop  for  art, 

And  those  other  gifts  wherein  the  mother  had  shone, 

Her  instruction,  thus  far,  having  been  Helen's  own. 

VII. 

A  strange  ballad,  one  day,  Helen  heard,  which  struck  cords 
In  her  heart  that  long  vibrated;  and,  while  the  words 
Of  the  song  in  Romance  dialect  had  been  sung, 
She  observed  that  its  measure  appeared  to  have  sprung 
From  the  skalds  of  the  far  Scandinavian  climes; 
And,  as  best  she  could,  thus  she  translated  the  rhymes: 


RESIGNATION.  309 


AN   ALLEGORY. 

r. 

The  wind  blew  fair;  the  wind  blew  free; 
The  wind  blew  over  a  sun-bright  sea. 

My  ship  was  trim;  my  ship  was  staunch; 
A  conielier  never  did  mortal  launch. 

The  wheel  by  the  helmsman  Faith  was  manned; 
He  held  the  rudder  with  steadfast  hand. 

The  freight  of  my  ship  was  the  dreams  of  youth; 
The  silken  streamer  was  legended  "Truth." 

The  master  Hope  went  into  command; 

The  bright  bow  of  promise  the  blue  sky  spanned. 

Sole  owner  was  I  of  keel  and  crew, 

And  lord  of  the  master  and  helmsman  true. 

We  sailed  out  into  the  beckoning  West; 

We  shaped  our  course  for  the  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

In  those  fair  realms,  in  the  heart  enshrined, 
The  Balm  Content  I  had  hoped  to  find. 

ii. 

The  wind  blew  strong;  the  wind  blew  high; 
The  wind  blew  out  of  a  darkened  sky. 

The  ribs  of  the  good  ship  creaked   and  ground; 
The  waves  of  the  great  sea  sobbed  and  moaned. 

The  roar  of  the  blast  still  louder  grew; 
It  drowned  the  shouts  of  master  and  crew. 

'Mid  bursting  of  billows  and  lightning's  glare. 
We  waited  our  fate  in  mute  despair. 

in. 

The  storm  went  by.     Our  sails  were  rent, 
Our  cordage  loosed,  our  strong  masts  bent. 


310  HELEN. 


The  helmsman  stood  with  a  saddened  face; 
The  master  moved  with  a  slackened  pace. 

...  A  Mentor  old,  unknown  to  me, 
Had  shipped  in  our  vessel's  company. 

He  said:     "Who  trusts  to   the  ocean's  tide, 
Alike  must  storm  and  calm  abide. 

"The  heart  that  quails  at  the  angry  blast 
Deserves  not  peace  when  the  storm  be  past." 

IV. 

The  isles  I  sought  in  the  Occident 
Grew  not  for  me  the  Balm  Content. 

The  air  was  burdened  with  indolence; 
A  vague  disquiet  oppressed  the  sense. 

I  sighed  for  the  wild  and  angry  gales 
That  swept  with  vigor  my  own  green  vales. 

I  weighed  my  anchor,  and  out  of  the  West 
I  sailed  with  a  ballast  of  dull  unrest. 

My  Mentor  said:     "  Thou'lt  find  no  strand 
With  sweeter  yield  than  thy  parent  land." 

I  said:     "  I'll  pass  to  the  suulands  fair, 
And  make  the  search  for  my  balsam  there." 

v. 

I  sailed  full  long  the  Southern  seas, 
With  smiling  sky,  with  favoring  breeze. 

I  found  no  isle,  I  touched  no  shore, 
Where  grew  the  tree  my  balm  that  bore. 
My  Mentor  said:     "Thy  soul  doth  tire: 
Thou  art  no  nearer  thy  soul's  desire. 
"  Not  seas  of  the  South,  not  isles  of  the  West, 
Yield  what  springs  only  within  thy  breast." 

VI. 

With  aching  heart,  with  feverous  brow, 
I  homeward  turned  my  vessel's  prow. 


RESIGNATION.  311 

Once  more  the  wind  blew  fair  and  free, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  mantled  the  sea. 

The  helmsman  steered  with  a  trembling  hand; 
The  master  wielded  a  weak  command. 

The  crew  were  weary;  the  ship  was  worn; 
The  faded  streamer  in  twain  was  torn. 

My  strength  had  vanished;  my  pride  had  fled; 
Ah,  me!     How  the  years  of  my  life  had  sped! 

VII. 

I  saw  the  bounds  of  my  native  lea; 
My  heart  beat  high  with  expectancy. 

Moss  hung  my  natal  roof-tree  o'er; 

The  form  of  a  stranger  stood  in  the  door. 

But  Nature's  face  was  all  unchanged; 
The  smiles  of  Heaven  unstinted  ranged. 

The  grass  was  green,  the  birds'  songs  gay; 
The  rivulet  rippled  its  life  away. 

All  blooms  of  the  field  their  fragrance  shed; 
"God  lives  for  aye!"  my  soul  to  me  said. 

Then  into  my  spirit  sweet  peace  was  sent; 

And  my  heart  was  healed  by  the  Balm  Content. 

VIII. 

From  these  jaunts  Richard  often  had  strengthened  returned, 
And  in  spirit  refreshed,  till  at  length  now  he  yearned 
To  go  back  to  the  land  of  his  birth  ;  and  they  made 
Preparations  to  leave  the  quaint  town's  silent  shade ; 
When  the  overstrained  mental  exertion  brought  on 
A  relapse ;  and  the  hope,  so  brief-seasoned,  was  gone. 

IX. 

Then  the  dread  leaden  tiger,  which  crouching  long  lay 
At  the  gate  of  the  heart,  making  spring  for  its  prey, 


ol^  HELEN. 

Seized  upon  it ;  the  strength  of  the  remnant  of  life 
Yielded  swiftly ;  and  Richard  Rolfe  knew  that  the  strife 
Xeared  its  close. 

x. 

From  his  window,  in  autumn's  soft  air, 
He  saw  grapes  purpling  'neath  thrifty  vine-dressers'  care 
On  brown  hillsides,  safe  sheltered  from  blasts  of  the  north ; 
Saw  the  rill  from  the  near  mountain's  side  gushing  forth  ; 
Heard  blithe  carols  of  birds,  which  familiar  had  grown 
To  his  ear  in  the  white  years  that  o'er  him  had  flown 
In  his  love-prison  there ;  the  endeared  incense  breathed 
Of  the  floral  wealth  round  his  low,  trellised  cot  wreathed, 
Overfreighting  the  air  with  a  grateful  perfume ; 
Saw  the  sorrowing  peasants,  in  deep  sympathy, 
With  steps  measured  and  noiseless  his  doorway  pass  by ; 
Felt  the  southern  sun's  warmth,  that  had  long  bathed  his  room 
With  the  crimson  of  sunsets  and  dawns'  flaming  gold, 
Which  for  him  were  now  numbered ;  and,  brave  as  of  old, 
Smiled  as  martyrs  once  smiled  in  arenas  of  Rome, 
Grouped  in  waiting  for  hungry  wild  beasts  forth  to  come. 
Though  no  cure  for  his  body  earth's  stores  can  supply, 
And  in  fate's  book  'tis  writ,  Richard  Rolfe  has  to  die, 
Richard  Rolfe's  soul,  undaunted,  looks  fate  in  the  face. 
And  sublimely  greets  death  with  a  hero's  own  grace. 


XI. 

Bending  over  his  couch  were  the  two  dear  to  him. 
As  life's  light  in  the  gathering  shadows  grew  dim, 
There  was  something  he  whispered  for  Helen  to  hear, 
Which  was  meant  for  none  else  than  her  privileged  ear. 


RESIGNATION. 


313 


She  knelt  down  ;  and,  while  Richard  was  clasping  her  hand, 

There  came  down  the  right  angel  and  severed  earth's  band ; 

Then,  for  one  supreme  moment  of  joyous  relief, 

In  a  sunburst  of  glory  was  dimmed  terrene  grief; 

And,  on  prayer  breathed  by  her  his  enfranchised  soul  rode 

Out  through  ambient  ether,  and  up  to  its  God. 


CANTO  EIGHTH. 


REMEDILESSNESS. 


I. 

The  old  Wrenthams,  of  Wrentham  Hall,  near  to  the  sea, 
In  the  rich  shire  of  Devon,  were  high  of  degree, 
And  were  clean  of  repute.     They  had  served  from  far  back. 
In  the  council  and  field,  without  shame,  without  fleck ; 
And  sole  heir  was  Ray  Wrentham  to  all  the  demesne, 
Where  his  race  had  served,  flourished,  and  high  honors  seen, 
Through  the  brightest  of  ages  that  England  has  known, 
And  had  done  their  full  portion  to  build  her  renown. 
He  wa^  fair  of  complexion,  with  eyes  of  deep  blue, 
And  with  great  wealth  of  hair,  of  a  bright  auburn  hue ; 
Squarely  stood  on  his  feet,  and  was  lusty  of  limb : 
Thus  the  pure  Saxon  type  was  developed  in  him. 

ii. 

And  Ray  Wreutham,  of  Wrentham  Hall,  blue-eyed  and  fair, 
Was  the  lover,  devoted,  of  Miss  Blanche  Adair. 
You'd  of  course  like  to  know,  reader,  how  it  should  come, 
That  this  Englishman  wandered  so  far  from  his  home, 
Thus  a  sweetheart  to  woo,  when  the  land  of  his  birth 
Teemed  with  some  of  the  loveliest  women  of  earth. 

in. 

It  was  thus  that  Ray  Wrentham  had  met  Blanche  Adair: 
They  descended  the  Rhine  on  a  day  aught  but  fair, 


REMEDILESSNESS.  315 

When  the  heavens,  ill-tuned,  upon  frowning  seemed  bent, 

And  the  heart,  sympathizing,  breathed  dull  discontent. 

All  the  passengers  under  the  spell  seemed  to  be 

Of  the  foul-weather  spirit,  save  one  coterie 

Of  choice  Germans  engaged  upon  subjects  profound, 

Whose  depths  never  a  lead-line  of  sailor  could  sound, 

Mingling  themes  ot  SSafyrfjeit,  (Sttrigfeit,  unb  fo  tueiter, 

To  the  Teuton  so  dear  when  the  spirit  is  Better, 

With  such  topics  as  Srieg,  ®aifer,  9tul)in,  SReiteret, 

And  those  touching  the  brew  of  the  best  93raueret. 

IV. 

With  her  traveling  party  entire,  Blanche  had  grown 
So  insufferably  ennuye,  that  a  yawn 
In  despair  escaped  her. 

At  this  moment  she  caught 

The  blue  eyes  of  one  tortured  likewise;  and' she 'thought: 
"If  those  fine  orbs  were  now  closely  fixed  on  my  own, 
I  don't  think  that  the  hours  would  so  dully  drag  on ; 
And  I  doubt  whether  I  should  of  yawning  once  dream; 
While  Sir  Blue  Eyes  from  gaping-bonds  I  could  redeem: 
So  I  think." 

Thiswise  thinking,  she  rose  from  her  seat, 
And,  with  guide-book  in  hand — "  last  edition,  complete" — 
And  while  most  of  her  friends  were  in  slumber's  still  deeps, 
With  intentness  surveyed  Father  Rhine's  castled  steeps. 

v. 

Not  long  thus  had  she  stood,  when  the  blue-eyed  approached, 
And  a  meet  topic  for  conversation  thus  broached, 
After  having  saluted  her  with  such  a  grace 
As  of  seeming  presumption  removed  every  trace : 
"  If  I  may  be  forgiven  for  what  might  seem  rude, 
And  you'd  kindly  permit  me  so  far  to  intrude 


31G  HEI.KN. 

On  your  privacy,  pleading  this  villainous  weather, 

Which  makes  us  all  dismal  and  dumpish  together, 

I  should  like  to  contribute  whatever  I  may 

To  enliven  the  gloom  of  this  saturnine  day. 

If  agreeable,  I  will  endeavor  for  you 

To  point  out,  as  I  may  be  enabled  to  do, 

Some  scenes  worthy  of  stud)-,  as  we  shall  pass  on  - 

Views  with  which  my  sight  very  familiar  has  grown, 

As  I've  many  times  traveled  this  route  heretofore." 

VI. 

'"Twould  contribute  much  to  1113*  enjoyment,  I'm  sure," 
Him  thus  answered,  with  frankness  and  grace  in  her  air. 
And  with  no  trace  of  prudery,  sweet  Blanche  Adair. 

VII. 

Then  he  said : 

"  'Tis  too  bad,  the  poor  guide-books  to  scold 
As  we  do.     They  are  useful,  and  helpful,  though  old ; 
And,  like  friends  on  whose  benefits  daily  we  count, 
We  are  apt  to  misreckon  the  gentle  amount 
Of  the  good  that  they  do.     It  is  true  that  they  tell 
Their  tales  all  in  one  fashion,  and  equally  dwell 
On  each  theme,  great  or  small,  whate'er  space  it  may  fill 
In  earth's  records,  as  if  each  were  ground  through  a  mill. 
But  mankind  feed  on  grists ;  and  the  few  only  strive 
On  fresh  pabulum  mental  or  moral  to  thrive. 
To  the  many  these  stories  teem  richly  with  zest, 
All  the  faculties  charming  with  thrilled  interest, 
Though  to  some  they  drag  on  like  the  wearisome  drone 
Of  the  bee,  or  the  katydid's  dull  monotone. 

VIII. 

"  If  a  guide-book  could  be  for  the  separate  taste 
Of  each  voyager  written,  what  infinite  waste 


REMEDILESSXESS.  31? 

Of  good  paper  and  ink  would  the  sated  world  see, 
And  what  Rhines  of  rhetorical  wash  would  there  be  ! 
Let  us  thank  the  good  fates  that  we  have  nothing  worse 
In  the  way  of  guide-books  for  depleting  the  purse ; 
For  they're  surely  more  honest  than  most  books  we  read, 
In  that  these  spread  no  nets  with  intent  to  mislead ; 
And,  while  half  that  they  give  is  pure  legend,  as  such 
They  present  it,  and  not  in  the  shape  of  a  crutch 
Crippled  logic  to  prop.     For,  with  all  we  can  do, 
Guide-books  will  be  guide-books." 

IX. 

— "  And  be  nothing  like  you  !" 

Thought,  but  certainly  did  not  once  venture  to  say, 
The  pleased  Blanche,  as  the  Englishman  chatted  away. 

x. 

Then  he  told,  as  they  passed,  of  traditions  which  hung 

Castled  ruins  around  that  to  storied  heights  clung ; 

And  showed  what  was  yet  left  of  the  glories  of  old  ; 

What  to-day's  green  enrobed,  and  what  j'esterday's  mold; 

What  tales  anchorage  had  in  historical  truth, 

And  what  ones  baseless  were  as  the  fancies  of  youth. 

And  these  things  all  he  said  in  so  pleasant  a  way. 

That  what  had  been  begun  as  a  stupid,  dull  day, 

Though  the  weather  was  poor  as  one  ever  will  see, 

An  enjoyable,  red-letter  day  proved  to  be  ; 

And  Blanche    learned   of  the   Rhine  and   its  castle-crowned 

shores, 

And  of  legends  that  live  in  their  myth-mingled  stores, 
More  than  she  could  from  guide-books  have  possibly  gained, 
Had  she  o'er  them  a  fortnight  in  deep  study  strained. 


318  HELEN. 

XI. 
'Twas  in  this  way  they  met. 

But,  pray,  don't  understand 

That  in  love  with  each  other  they  fell  out  of  hand, — 
Not  at  all ;  for  they  both  were  quite  wide-awake  souls, 
And  each  somewhat  had  seen  of  love's  breakers  and  shoals. 
No,  no ;  each  was  alive,  and  alert,  and  on  guard  ; 
And  in  love  at  first  sight  falling  each  held  absurd. 

XII. 

And  yet,  nevertheless,  did  the  young  English  squire 
Get  so  deeply  enlisted  as  soon  to  inquire 
The  direction  the  group  to  which  Blanche  was  attached 
Was  to  take,  and  himself  thereupon  he  detached 
From  his  own  party,  and  followed  hers. 

And  thus  sprang, 

Like  Minerva  from  Jove's  odd  occipital  pang, 
A  strong-born,  full-armed,  first-class  flirtation,  extending 
O'er  continents  twain ;  for  when  Blanche,  her  tour  ending, 
Returned  to  her  home  in  the  West,  soon,  behold  ! 
Thither  Ray  Wrentham  came,  his  love-leaguer  to  hold. 

XIII. 

It  was  one  of  the  rarest  flirtations  that  ever  have  been 

Between  woman  and  man  on  this  green  earth  yet  seen. 

Blanche  Adair,  of  a  truth,  had  of  suitors  no  lack: 

One  might  say  that  they  came,  as  they  went,  at  her  beck ; 

For,  as  fast  as  the  doom  of  the  old  lovers  rang, 

Like  heads  fabled  of  Hydra  the  new  ones  up  sprang ; 

And  the  old  ones  watched  ever  her  heart's  swinging  gate, 

Like  the  spirits  that  outside  of  Paradise  wait. 

.   .   .  And,  right  into  the  midst  of  this  plethora,  came 

Fronvafaf  the  proud  lover  with  long-honored  name. 


REMEDILESSNESS.  319 

XIV. 

The  new  knight  in  the  joust  was  the  favorite  now ; 
But  how  long  would  this  last?     Not  a  soul  could  avow. 
Wrentham  thus  in  the  contest  was  clearly  ahead, 
When  by  tidings  called  home  of  a  relative  dead. 

xv. 

And  this  brings  us  to  when,  in  the  blush  of  the  year, 
Asa  fate,  one  might  say,  to  Mark  Landis's  sphere, 
In  her  radiant  beauty,  the  sweet  Blanche  Adair 
Came,  to  light  with  her  presence  the  neighborhood  there, 
The  vicinity  gossips  to  set  by  the  ears. 
And  our  farmer  to  rouse  from  the  dreams  of  the  years. 

XVI. 

...  It  was  strange — was  it  not? — in  the  farthest  degree, 
That  two  beings  from  opposite  shores  of  life's  sea — 
That  two  natures  so  little  alike,  and  apart 
So  extremely  in  mind,  and  in  soul,  and  in  heart, 
Should  be  thus  thrown  together.     And  stranger  it  was. 
That  each  seemed  to  be  well  entertained. 

Mental  laws. 

Ye  philosophers,  seek  not  too  close  to  expound, 
Lest  phenomenal  facts  all  your  wisdom  confound. 
There  are  things,  in  the  realm  of  the  heart  and  the  brain, 
That  the  angels  themselves  would  scarce  try  to  explain. 

XVII. 

Blanche  extended  her  visit    so  long,  that  there  came 

From  the  city  some  calls  from  the  moths  round  her  flame 

That  impatiently  fluttered ;  and  these  only  served 

To  Mark's  own  self  to  show,  what  had  been  well  observed 

By  his  friends,  that  his  mind  was  becoming  absorbed 

In  this  luminant  being — this  planet,  full-orbed, 

Of  etherial  beauty  ;  for  he  was  disturbed 


320  HELEN. 

By  these  moths  as  should  ne'er  be  one  so  unperturbed 

By  affairs  of  this  trivial  nature   as  he, 

The  confirmed  bachelor,  was  reputed  to  be. 

XVIII. 

But  all  visits,  in  time,  must  approach  to  an  end, 
As  did  that  made  by  Miss  Blanche  Adair  to  her  friend ; 
And,  as  promised,  came  Mrs.  Trelevyn,  to  learn 
How  Mark  had  his  commission  discharged,  and  discern 
The  effect  Blanche's  beauty  had  had  upon  him, 
And  if  Ray  Wrentham's  star  had  grown  anywise  dim ; 
For,  although  no  match-maker,  as  had  been  premised 
At  the  start,  whereof  Mark  was  distinctly  advised, — 
Notwithstanding  this,  Mrs.  Trelevyn  was  human, 
And  Mrs.  Trelevyn,  throughout,  was  all  woman. 

XIX. 

"  Pray,  Blanche,  open  your  confidence-doors,  as  of  old, 

And  the  net  yield  of  this  new  acquaintance  unfold. 

What  impression  has  our  friend  the  General  wrought 

On  your  heart,  or  your  soul,  or  your  sense,  or  your  thought? 

Has  he  kept  himself  closed,  like  an  oyster,  to  you, 

Or  expanded  and  beamed,  as  he  only  can  do?" 

xx. 

Just  then  one  of  those  moods  seized  upon  Blanche  Adair, 
Of  quite  heart-to-heart  frankness,  with  women  so  rare ; 
And  she  said  to  her  friend,  while  the  light  in  her  eyes 
Showed  an  earnestness  filling  the  friend  with  surprise : 

XXI. 

"Cousin,  had  I  met  him  in  the  days  that  are  gone, — 

Had  I  known  ham  ere  into  world-ways  I  had  grown, — 

I  had  loved  him  through  life  to  the  dimness  of  death! 

I  should  then  have  known  something  of  treasures  earth  hath 

For  the  faithful  and  true ;  for  I  could  have  been  true — 


REMEDILESSNESS.  021 

O,  so  true  ! — to  a  love  'neath  his  nursing  that  grew. 

.   .   .   Him  I  first  thought  to  master ; — indeed,  for  a  while, 

He  seemed  captive  to  be  'neath  the  charm  of  my  smile; 

But  ere  long  the  supremacy  he  had  assumed, 

And  he  conquered  me,  clamped  me  !  Strong  eloquence  bloomed 

In  his  speech ;  power  masterful  marked  all  his  mien. 

What  could  woman  do  'gainst  such  a  will,  so  serene, 

All-assumptive,  all-holding?     What  could  Blanche  Adair 

Do,  but  fall  in  the  dust  and  pay  him  homage  there?" 

XXII. 

"Cousin  Blanche!     What  means  this?     Why,   dear,   I    had 

supposed 

That  your  heart  was  Ray  Wrentham's,  that  he  had  proposed, 
And  that  all  was  arranged." 

XXIII. 

' '  What  webs  we  women  weave ! 
How  ourselves  do  we  and  one  another  deceive! 
Cousin  mine,  in  my  lessons  in  world- wisdom,  gained 
At  expense  of  the  freshness  of  heart  that  once  reigned 
In  my  germinaut  being,  this  fact  I  have  found : 
That  of  all  the  heart -strangers  in  life's  broadened  bound. 
The  most  widely  removed  oft  in  confidence  true 
Are  female  bosom-friends. 

"  I  disclose  now  to  you, 

While  the  humor  is  on  me,  that,  having  once  met 
This  man,  all  other  men  I  would  gladly  forget. 
Had  I  never  known  him,  I  could  Wrentham  have  loved — 
Loved  well-nigh  with  true  love.     But  yourkindnesshas  proved 
Only  cruelty  to  me,  though  meant  for  the  best:" 

XXIV. 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  the  cousin,  "since  you've  thus  confessed 
To  these  feelings,  why  you  cannot  still  make  exchange 


322  HELEN. 

Of  Ray  Wrentham  for  L,andis.     For  you  'twere  not  strange, 

If  you'll  pardon  me  for  the  remark  ;  while  the  heart 

Of  the  Briton  I  think  would  scarce  break  with  the  smart 

Of  dismissal.     And  though  he  possesses,  of  course, 

High  birth,  fortune,  and  standing,  yet  L,andis's  purse, 

I  am  told,  is  well  filled,  and  my  husband  thinks  yet 

He  may  gain  some  distinction.     And  do  not  forget 

That  love's  something,  though  only  a  fractional  part, 

To  be  thought  of  in  things  that  affect  hand  and  heart."  . 

XXV. 

"  Ah,  my  worldly-wise  cousin,"  said  Blanche,  "you've  left  out 
'One  important  factor  in  this  scheme  you  have  wrought. 
I  have  probed  this  man's  heart,  and  I  know  what  is  there, 
At  least,  what  is  not  there — love  for  poor  Blanche  Adair. 
I've  no  doubt  he  is  pleased  with  me:  why,  a  crowned  king 
Could  not  fail  to  be  pleased  with  me,  did  I  but  bring 
To  bear  on  him  the  art  I've  employed  on  your  friend — 
The  art  which  to  us  women  oft  evil  stars  send. 
But  I  tell  you,  dear  cousin,  I've  reached  for  the  heart 
Of  Mark  L,andis!     In  this  I  but  played  an  old  part; 
I  laid  snares  for  it ;  lured  it  on ;  angled  for  it. 
Any  other  heart  long  since  had  had  to  submit ; 
For  you  know  very  well  that  I've  failed  never  yet 
Heart  of  man  co  subdue  when  about  it  I  set. ' ' 

XXVI. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  archly  answered  the  cousin ;   "  like  tent 
Of  some  Indian  brave,  which  his  scalps  ornament, 
Your  wigwam  with  full  many  scalp-locks  is  adorned ; 
And  by  your  renowned  prowess  I  should  have  been  warned, 
My  dear  Blanche ;  yet  I  had  not  expected  that  you 
Would  the  war-path  with  General  Landis  pursue." 


RKMEDILESSNESS.  32 

XXVII. 

4 '  Then  you  should  not  have  brought  us  together, ' '  Blanche  said 
"  But,  n'importe;  it  is  over.     The  error  you've  made 
I  sincerely  forgive.     But  that  you  may  now  know 
That  I  have  a  heart  left,  let  me  say  this  to  you : 
That  to-day,  as  you  see  me,  the  proud  Blanche  Adair, 
In  the  world  so  absorbed,  that  to  her  seems  so  fair,— 
I  would  all  exchange  gladly,  were  L,andis  as  poor 
As  the  drudge  whose  toil  scarce  keeps  the  wolf  from  the  door ; 
Yea,  I'd  give  up  Ray  Wrentham  and  his  rich  demesne, 
For  this  heart  all  of  gold." 


XXVIII. 

'Twas  asked,  what  did  it  mean 

That  Ray  Wrentham  home  tarried  so  long  ?     Time  had  flown 
On  slow  pinions  with  gay  Blanche  Adair  while  had  grown 
Into  serious  months  the  wide  gap  since  he  left 
For  his  home,  and  her  heart  felt  bereft, 
Till  she  met  with  Mark  Laudis,  since  when    she  confessed 
To  herself  that  that  organ  had  known  small  unrest. 
Although  charming  Ray's  letters  had  been,  yet  they  failed 
To  account  for  his  lengthened  delay.     He  had  sailed, 
He  declared,  on  a  brief  return  bent,  yet  leaves  sere 
In  the  old  Devon  woods  had  begun  to  appear, 
Though  scarce  formed  when  he  landed  at  home. 

Rumor  stirred, 

Breathing  of  an  attraction  abroad  ;  yet  Blanche  heard 
But  to  laugh  at  the  legend.     And  still  there  was  pique 
Just  the  slightest ;  and  more  strongly  then  did  she  seek 


3:24  HELEN. 

To  please  L,andis,  whose  calls,  at  her  city  home  made, 
While  not  frequent,  were  rare  not  as  angels'  calls  paid. 

XXIX. 

Nor  did  these  efforts  cease  after  Wreutham  returned 

And  renewed  his  devoirs,  which,  of  course,  when  he  learned 

Of  a  rival,  had  but  more  demonstrative  grown  ; 

While  her  poise  Blanche  regained. 

So  the  play  still  went  on,. 

As  plays  numberless  round  us  proceed  day  by  day, 
On  the  variant  stage  of  this  world,  where  display 
With  concealment,  truth  clear  as  the  dawn's  virgin  light, 
With  truth's  converse,  enrobed  in  her  livery  bright, 
And  love  true  as  the  trust  of  the  martyr  in  death, 
With  love's  counterfeit,  robed  in  the  vestments  of  faith, 
All  combine  the  chiaro  oscuro  to  give, 
Which  art  needs  to  make  dramas  the  lives  that  we  live. 


CANTO  NINTH. 


EMBERS. 


I. 

A  grand  party :  the  finest  the  season  had  seen. 

Gathered  there,  and  commingled,  'mid  glitter  and  sheen, 

Were  high  genius,  and  culture,  and  valor,  and  worth ; 

There  were  dignified  bearing,  and  cognizant  birth ; 

There  were  taste,  elegance,  fashion,  delicatesse ; 

There  were  gentleness,  tenderness,  sweetness,  and  grace ; 

And  refinement's  true  charm  ;  and  bright,  heavenly  smiles : 

And  clear,  silvery  laughter;  and  beauty's  soft  wiles. 

There  were  all  of  these,  with  an  infusion,  not  small. 

Of  their  opposites ;  making  a  part  integral, 

A  true  section  of  life,  with  its  good  and  its  bad, 

And  its  fine  and  its  coarse,  and  its  joyous  and  sad, 

And  its  true  and  its  false,  and  its  substance  and  show, 

And  its  bliss  bright  as  day,  and  its  neatly  masked  woe. 

ii. 

Of  our  friends  quite  a  number,  good  reader,  were  there. 
First  of  all,  white  and  fair,  was  the  gay  Blanche  Adair; 
Still  as  fresh  as  the  morn,  and  with  no  vestige  faint, 
Or  suggestive  suspicion,  of  powder  or  paint 
In  her  face,  which  was  clear  as  the  crystalline  wave 
In  which,  making  their  toilets,  the  mermaidens  lave. 
The  Trelevyns  were  there ;  and  Ray  Wrentham  was  there 
And  the  moths  were  all  there,  each  with  sad,  helpless  air, 
And  a  look  of  lost  glory. 


320 


in. 

The  hour  had  grown  late 

When  Mark  L,andis  appeared.     Blanche,  in  wait 
For  his  coming,  could  scarcely  conceal  a  warm  thrill 
Of  delight. 

1 '  Wicked  man  !     More  than  one  fine  quadrille 
Which  poor  I  had  reserved  for  your  pleasure  has  passed 
Like  the  joys  of  life's  morning,  and  this  one,  the  last, 
Just  to  heap  coals  of  fire  on  your  culpable  head, 
Shall  be  given  to  j-oit,"  she  bewitchingly  said. 

IV. 

When  the  set  had  been  formed,  Blanche  still  so  absorbed  Mark, 
That  he  failed  to  observe  two  eyes,  lustrous  and  dark, 
To  his  own  vis-d-vis;  and  'twas  only  when  brought 
Close  in  contact  with  them,  that  was  suddenly  wrought 
In  his  breast  a  sensation. 

One  moment  he  stood, 

As  by  spear  transfixed,  or  as  with  feet  to  earth  glued; 
But  a  gentle  arm-pressure  from  Blanche  brought  him  back 
From  his  wanderings  brief  in  brown  revery's  track, 
Bringing  home  an  apology. 

v. 

"Who's  the  brunette, 

The  sweet  vision,  pray  tell  me,  that  graces  this  set?" 
He  inquired  of  Blanche,  \vho,  shrewdly  smiling,  replied: 

VI. 

"  'Tis  a  General's  daughter,  whose  brave  father  died 

Two  years  since,  when  abroad,  from  old  wounds  of  the  war. 

She's  the  brightest  advent  of  the  season  thus  far. 

Intellectual,  graceful,  keen,  and,  as  you  see, 

As  transcende'nt  in  feature  as  beauty  can  be. 

Have  you  now  first  observed  her?" 


KMBERS.  32 

VII. 

"In  truth.     I  could  ne'er 

In  neglect  have  passed  by  such  a  face,  such  an  air, 
Such  a  form,  even  when  in  the  presence  of  one 
Who  in  genuine  beauty  precedence  to  none 
Among  women  need  yield." 

VIII. 

A  like  round  compliment 

He  had  never  yet  paid  her.     She  knew  it  was  meant 
In  its  fullest  of  force.     All  self  sentiently  glowed 
With  the  keenest  delight,  which  each  lineament  showed. 

IX. 

"  Please  present  me,  Miss  Blanche  ;  I  believe  I  have  known 
The  girl's  father  in  years  that  are  very  long  gone." 

x. 

Blanche  Adair,  with  faults  thick  as  were  heroes  in  Thrace, 
In  her  nature  of  envy  had  never  a  trace ; 
And  she  grudged  not  a  fitting  occasion  to  take, 
With  the  new  debutante  Mark  acquainted  to  make. 

XI. 

Before  this  Provence- rose  as  he  bowed,  standing  there, 

In  the  height  of  the  fashion  attired,  and  his  hair, 

In  its  dark,  bushy  wealth,  showing  not  the  least  shade 

Of  a  change  in  its  hue,  one  would  surely  have  said, 

If  unknown  the  facts  of  their  respective  life  spheres, 

That  between  the  two  slight  was  the  balance  in  years. 

Introductions  exchanged,  the  girl  mused,  with  a  glance 

At  Mark  Landis,  and  in  recollection's  expanse 

With  her  large,  darkling  eyes  something  far  seemed  to  see; 

And  dim  echoes  on  pinions  of  strained  memory 

Came  at  .sound  of  his  name — mellowed  echoes  that  sprang 

Where  her  life-dawning' s  jubilant  gladness  first  rang. 


328  HELEN. 

XII. 

' '  Though  since  infancy  I  have  my  own  native  shore 
Seen  but  lately,  yet  must  I  have  met  you  before  : 
You,  I  hope,  are  my  dear  father's  friend  of  that  name." 
This  as  sweetly,  and  gently,  and  graciously  came 
From  her  lips,  as,  in  halcyon  summers  of  old, 
From  the  lips  of  another  came  phrases  of  gold. 

XIII. 

"  I  remember,"  said  Landis,  "in  war's  bitter  day, 
When,  from  wounds  sore  and  wearing,  exhausted  I  lay, 
Daily  came  to  my  cot,  bearing  floral  perfume, 
Holding  in  her  wee  hands  the  spring's  opulent  bloom, 
A  large-eyed  flower-girl ;  and  her  glad  presence  there 
Gave  me  strength,  gave  me  patience,  my  anguish  to  bear, 
And  made  fragrant  all  seasons  since  then  that  have  flown ; 
And  I  think  the  same  eyes  look  now  into  my  own." 

XIV. 

Then  the  vision,  upon  this  reminder  from  him, 
To  Celeste  came  o'er  dun  downs  of  memory  dim ; 
And  she  saw  the  old  scene,  in  the  tent  where  they  lay, 
Both  the  father  and  friend,  under  one  gentle  sway; 
And  two  tears  in  the  depths  of  her  glistening  eyes 
Mark  saw  form  into  shape,  into  pearls  crystallize ; 
Then,  as  he  the  discourse  on  less  sad  matters  turned, 
With  surprise  this  concerning  her  mother  he  learned : 
"She  has  been  some  days  at  the  old  farm,"  said  Celeste, 
"Where  I  join  her  as  soon  as  my  stay  here  is  passed. 
We  have  come  to  remain  with  my  grandfather  there, 
Who,  in  gathering  age,  needs  my  mother's  close  care." 


EMBERS.  329 

XV. 
Mark  was  back  on  his  farm. 

And   back  thus  to  this  scene 

Where  life's  spring  had  with  bourgeoned  hopes  radiant  been. 
Had  come  Helen,  *hat  might  by  her  care  be  beguiled 
Years  for  him  who  through  lustrums  long  had  for  his  child 
In  calm  hope  and  in  patient  faith  waited, — years  now 
Softly  fading'  like  winter's  last  remnants  of  snow. 
A  prolonged  L,enten  season  that  old  heart  had  passed, 
But  the  glad  Easter-time  had  dawned  on  it  at  last. 

XVI. 

O'er  the  new  phase  existence  presented  to  him 

Mark  sat  ruminant  long,  in  twilight  shadows  dim. 

"I  must  call — call  at  once;  I  must  neighborly  be," 

Was  the  course  he  marked  out  for  himself.      "  What  if  she 

The  old  friendship  not  now  to  renew  should  prefer? 

I  must  my  duty  do,  whatsoe'er  may  occur." 

XVII. 

.   .   .  Yes,  he  called. 

The  two  met,  as  meet  those  who  across 
Swollen  tides  hail  each  other — tides  bearing  the  loss 
Inundations  have  caused, — met,  and  spoke,  as  if  wide 
Still  between  them  stretched  seas ;  and  there  was  on  each  side 
The  restraint,  the  reserve,  that  the  last  scenes  had  marked 
Ere  she  had  with  her  duplicate  burden  embarked 
To  seek  peace  for  the  years. 

XVIII. 

Landis  called  once  again. 
Would  she  drive  with  him  ? 

Yes  ;  for  she  could  not  refrain ; 
She  could  be  but  kind,  courteous,  pleasant,  polite; 
And  he? — he  was  the  same. 


:>30  HELEN. 

Had,  then,  all  the  old  light 

That  illumined  these  lives  in  each  breast  died  away  ? 
Were  the  embers  extinct,  to  glow  no  more  for  aye? 

XIX. 

They  drove  not  through  green  lanes,  by  meandering  streams, 
Or  through  groves  tenanted  but  by  birds  and  by  dreams : — 
By  no  means.     'Twas  a  wide-awake,  real-life  drive, 
In  which  neither  sought  aught  of  dream-life  to  revive. 

xx. 

Mark  drove  round  his  great  farm  ;  showed  his  fences  and  sheds ; 
His  fine  orchard  ;  his  garden  ;  his  strawberry  beds ;  . 

His  prize  horses  and  cattle  ;  his  pigs  and  his  sheep ; 
Told  her  which  was  the  cheapest  and  best  breeds  to  keep ; 
And  exhibited  to  her  his  pets,  and  descanted 
Long  on  all  of  their  traits,  and  their  qualities  vaunted ; 
And  all  this  he  went  through  with  a  business-like  grace, 
As  if  she  were  proposing  to  purchase  the  place. 

XXI. 

Then  he  touched  upon  Richard,  with  tender  respect; 

And  he  spok'e  of  his  struggles,  his  useful  years  wrecked ; 

Of  Provence,  and  of  Europe ;  and  hoped  she  would  find 

The  change  back  to  the  prairie-life  one  to  her  mind. 

But  in  never  a  place  where  allusion  were  apt 

Had  sought  either  the  corse  that  the  long  years  enwrapped 

To  uncover,  by  tone,  or  suggestion,  or  look, 

In  the  whole  of  the  lengthened,  diversified  talk  ; 

— Save  but  once.     As  they  passed  by  a  rich  pasture-field, 

Helen,  seeing  a  courser  gigantic  in  build, 

Said  in  casual  tone  : 

"  You  still  cultivate  breeds 
Of  strong  horses,  I  see." 


EMBERS.  331 

XXII. 

"  Yes ;  but  ne'er  other  steeds 

Have  I  owned  like  the  pair  of  which  this  one  alone 
Remains  living,  whose  work-days  forever  are  done. 
Me  he  bore  in  peace-days,  as  in  days  of  war's  gloom, 
And  links  me  with  the  seasons  when  hearts  were  in  bloom." 

XXIII. 

Helen  passed  the  theme  by,  and  it  quietly  slept, 
And  henceforth  to  the  shore  she  more  rigidly  kept. 

XXIV. 

The  drive  had  been  a  long  one,  and  shadows  were  slant 
•tfefore  homeward  they  turned,  and  soon  daylight  grew  scant — 
Scant  as  spirit  or  life  in  their  guarded  discourse, 
Which  had  run  like  a  lazy,  dull  stream  in  its  course. 

XXV. 

At  her  house,  Helen  said  : 

' '  Did  I  not  understand 

You  are  going  some  days  iiithe  city  to  spend?" 
"Yes." 

1 '  A  favor  I  ask ,  then . ' ' 

' '  You  have  but  to  say 
What  it  is." 

XXVI. 

"My  dear  child  is  now  making  a  stay 
Of  some  weeks  in  the  city  ;  and,  while  she  is  there, 
It  would  be  a  great  kindness  to  her,  could  you  spare 
[And  there  seemed  some  slight  stress  on  this  word  to  be  laid] 
A  stray  hour,  now,  and  then,  for  a  call  to  be  made 
At  the  friends'  whom  she  visits,  who,  too,  are  your  friends, 
I  believe. 

' '  She  is  studying  hard  toward  ends 
Which  I  fear  she  may  never  attain,  though  I  know 


332  HELEN. 

The  dear  girl  has  some  talent.     Pardon  me  if  I  show 
Something  done  by  her  hand." 

XXVII. 

Then  the  fond  mother  brought 

For  inspection  a  number  of  landscape  views,  wrought 
By  Celeste  in  their  Mediterranean  home. 
With  a  look  which  could  ne'er  from  feigned  interest  come, 
Mark  glanced  over  the  sketches  he  held  in  his  hand, 
While  his  features  by  Helen  were  anxiously  scanned ; 
Then  remarked : 

' '  The  girl's  hand  has  been  well  disciplined ; 
Some  correct  principles  of  design  she  has  gleaned, 
Which  will  be  of  great  benefit  in  her  pursuit 
Of  art,  if  she  aspires  to  reach  after  its  fruit 
With  a  patient  and  sedulous  arm." 

xxvni. 

There  came  now 

Into  Helen  Rolfe's  features  a  warm,  honest  glow, 
The  first  sign  of  emotion  yet  made  manifest. 
She  rejoined: 

"  If  you  could  but  say  this  to  Celeste, 
I  am  sure  it  would  nerve  her  to  efforts  severe 
And  unceasing ;  for  she  has  been  taught  to  revere 
Your  opinions — by  her  adored  father." 

The  close 
Of  the  sentence  seemed  specially  measured. 

XXIX. 

Mark  rose, 

And  again,  as  he  had  at  the  first  of  these  calls, 
Glanced  at  paintings  that  hung  on  the  old  parlor  walls, 
Each  one  closely  surveying. 

' '  These  larger  ones  are, 


EMBERS.  333 

I  should  judge,  by  one  hand.     They  are  certainly  far 
Above  average  pieces  brought  home  from  abroad, 
And  the  artist  must  be  with  marked  talent  endowed. 
There  is  palpably  shown  a  most  exquisite  care 
In  his  efforts.     He  has  conscientiousness  rare, 
And  is  clearly  imbued  with  the  essence  of  taste. 
Perhaps  he  it  was  tutored  your  daughter  Celeste  ?" 

XXX. 

"  She  obtained  from  him  some  useful  hints,"  Helen  said, 
' '  But  the  girl  very  sparing  instruction  has  had. 
She  has  drawn  much  from  nature,  and  happiest  seems 
When  with  sketch-book  among  the  hills,  valleys,  and  streams." 

XXXI. 

"  Now  I  know  her  instruction  has  been  sure  and  sound; 

For  no  rival  of  nature  has  ever  been  found 

As  a  teacher,  if  she  but  be  followed  in  sooth. 

But,  ah,  me!  modern  art  strays  so  widely  from  truth! 

In  art-efforts  the  tempting  seems  ever  to  be 

To  get  too  far  from  nature.     All  artists  agree 

In  this  precept,  and  yet  nearly  all  of  them  fail 

To  pursue  it  in  practice.     Sure,  nought  can  avail 

All  the  strivings  of  hand,  all  the  studies  of  brain, 

While  the  devotee  follows  false  gods  to  his  bane." 

XXXII. 

As  these  words  fell  from  Mark,  Helen  wandered  in  dreams; 

For  the  past  was  brought  back,  with  its  auroral  beams; 

And  again  was  her  glad  youth  before  her,  and  he, 

Its  true  Mentor,  stood  there,  and  scarce  changed  seemed  to  be, — 

Stood  attesting,  as  he  had  attested  of  old, 

Living  truth,  and,  as  then,  dross  detaching  from  gold. 

XXXIIT. 

Mark  now  added : 


334  HELEN. 

' '  I  certainly  cannot  refrain 
From  recurring  to  this  Provence  artist  again. 
If  you'll  give  me  his  name  and  address,  I  believe 
I  will  give  him  an  order ;  or  will  you  receive 
The  commission,  and  send  it  to  him?" 

XXXIV. 

' '  Yes.     His  name, 

Having  not  even  anything  like  local  fame, 
I  can't  give  you  just  now;  but  the  order  I'll  take 
And  transmit  it ;  and  what  stipulations  you  make 
I  will  see  that  most  faithfully  he  shall  observe." 

XXXV. 

"  Well,"  said  Mark,  "these  poor  fellows  strive  hard,  and  deserve 
All  encouragement  one  is  disposed  to  bestow. 
You  may  let  him  paint  for  me  two  pictures,  as  you 
Or  as  he  may  deem  best.     Only  these  terms  I  make, 
That  for  me  the  same  pains  here  evinced  he  shall  take." 

XXXVI. 

...  As  he  drove  toward  his  farm,  things  like  these  Landis 

thought : 

"  It  is  over  at  last,  and  the  sooner  forgot 
Is  the  long  dream,  the  better  for  her  and  for  me. 
L,et  me  bury  it  out  of  my  sight. 

"Well  has  she 

Her  grand  purpose  fulfilled.     What  have  I  with  her  life 
To  do  now?     How  should  I  enter  into  the  strife 
When  the  triumph  is  gained,  and  the  recompense  won — 
I,  who  victory  have  none  to  boast?     All  is  done  !" 

XXXVII. 

And  wouldst  know,  reader,  what  it  was  Helen,  too,  said 
To  herself  when  her  old  friend  was  gone,  while  her  head 
She  bowed  down  in  her  hands,  and  in  silence  sat  long? 


EMBERS.  335 

"  So  it  ends,  the  long  tale! — this  love  which  was  so  strong  !— 
This  love  which  should  endure  while  the  years  ran  their  course  ! — 
This  love  which  should  prove  true  as  its  eternal  source  ! 
And  to  yield  up  for  yonder  love  my  memory ! 
And  of  that  love  not  sure  !     O,  Mark  L,andis,  to  see 
Your  great  heart  wasted  on  a  mere  fragment  of  love, 
Is  a  sight  the  deep  pity  of  angels  to  move ! ' ' 

XXXVIII. 

But.  good  Helen,  up  Yonder  they  get  not  their  view 

Of  time's  scenes  through  the  same  lenses  earthlings  peer  through ; 

And  they  scrutinize  both  sides  of  all  cases  human — 

Something  down  here  the  rarest  in  man  or  in  woman. 

Why,  if  angels  were  moved  whene'er  mortals  went  maying, 

Or  o'er  men  and  maids  grieved  in  flirtation's  ways  straying, 

The  entire  corps  celestial  'twould  so  close  absorb 

To  look  after  things  on  this  most  troublesome  orb, 

That  scant  time  would  they  have  in  their  own  pearled  domain 

The  due,  requisite  order  and  care  to  maintain. 

Thus  their  own  way  to  make  have  the  subjects  of  love 

In  this  struggle-filled  world,  with  small  help  from  Above ; 

For  the  truth  is,  so  much  of  love  is  not  divine, 

That  the  Heavenly  heralds,  on  mission  benign 

Should  they  visit  earth,  balm  for  love's  miseries  bearing, 

Would  not  know  who  the  blessing  were  worthy  of  sharing. 


CANTO  TENTH, 


REMORSE. 


I. 

To  the  city  his  visit  Mark  made  the  next  day, 
And  kept  promise  with  Helen ;  for  he,  in  such  way 
As  true  courtesy  prompted,  exerted  his  best, 
And  his  gentlest,  to  make  with  the  charming  Celeste 
The  time  pass  pleasantly. 

ii. 

There  had  flitted  a  shade 

O'er  Mark's  features  when  he  the  discovery  made, 
•That,  as  Wrentham  across  his  path  frequently  ran 
When  he  called  upon  Blanche,  the  bright  young  Englishman 
Not  infrequently  was  by  him  latterly  passed, 
Calling  also  upon  the  delightful  Celeste. 
But  in  one  of  Mark's  heart- warming  visits  to  her, 
As  occasion  occurred  to  this  theme  to  refer, 
Of  Ray  Wrentham  Celeste  told  him  this : 

in. 

' '  He  had  known 

My  dear  father,  who  formed  his  acquaintance  in  one 
Of  our  jaunts  for  health-seeking;  and  he  afterward, 
When  the  news  of  the  death  of  my  parent  he  heard, 
Knowing  how  we  were  circumstanced,  came  all  the  way 
To  our  far  Provence  home,  there  such  aid  as  might  lay 
In  his  power  to  render,  and  kindly  extend 
From  his  mother  to  us  a  request  that  we  spend 


REMORSE.  33? 

A  few  weeks  at  their  Devonshire  home  by  the  sea. 
This  we  did ;  and  by  my  loving  mother  and  me 
Has  that  visit  been  fondly  remembered. 

' '  We  learned 

Hospitality  English  to  gauge  ;  and  discerned 
What  it  is  that  the  core  of  Old  England's  heart  forms; 
That  one  sun  that  great  heart  and  America's  warms; 
Learned  that  Home,  in  that  kindred  and  common-hearthed  land, 
Means  the  same  that  it  means  on  our  own  native  strand ; 
And  that,  speaking  one  tongue,  English  still  all  are  we, 
On  whichever  side  of  the  so  wide  parting  sea 
It  be  ours  to  have  birth. 

"  What  a  beautiful  bride 

W^ill  Ray  Wrentham  have !     He,  I  am  sure,  will  take  pride 
In  conveying  her  home  to  his  country,  where  few 
Are  the  types  of  pure  beauty  as  her  own  so  true." 

IV. 

Whate'er  shadow  had  been  on  Mark's  countenance  shown 
Fled  at  this  frank  disclosure  in  heartiest  tone. 

v. 

.   .   .   Having  now  changed  the  subject,  Mark  pleasantly  touched 
On  the  eloquent  topic  her  mother  had  broached  ; 
And  he  told  of  the  gain  that  la}'  in  the  pursuit, 
As  a  study,  of  art ;  how  it  ripened  the  fruit 
Of  the  best  observation,  and  new  life  awoke, 
And  a  better,  in  brain  and  in  heart;  then  he  spoke 
Of  the  primary  principles  that  underlie 
All  art ;  claimed  that  a  bird  might  as  well  seek  to  fly 
Without  wings,  as  an  artist  to  paint  or  to  draw, 
But  he  not  read  in  Beauty's  grand,  unwritten  law. 
And  he  told  her  how  sweet  was  the  labor  of  art, 
If  one  labors  in  light,  and  with  joy  in  the  heart; 


338  HELEN. 

But  how  dull  and  despondent  such  labor  must  prove, 
With  mechanical  hand,  and  the  heart  cold  to  love. 
He  expressed  his  regret,  in  a  tone  sad  and  low, 
That  his  fate  had  divorced  him  from  art  long  ago ; 
And  then,  turning  his  glowing  black  eyes  upon  her, 
Thus  he  said,  while  her  own  on  his  riveted  were : 

VI. 

1 '  Semper  made  virtute,  my  sweet  little  friend ; 
To  your  love  for  true  art  make  all  purposes  bend ; 
Struggle  on  ;  struggle  hard  ;  struggle  humbly  and  long ; 
You  have  youth  ;  you  have  health  ;  you  are  ready  and  strong. 
Of  art's  temple  shrink  not  to  sit  down  at  the  gate : 
The  reward  cannot  fail,  if  in  patience  you  wait. 
If  in  rags  long  enough  your  bowed  soul  be  content 
To  remain  in  abasement  and  bitterness  bent. 
And  oppressive  belittlement,  some  golden  morn, 
Out  of  heart-wringing  effort  success  shall  be  born  ; 
Your  glad  vision  the  great  swinging  portal  .shall  greet ; 
And  then,  entering,  you  shall  sit  at  the  king's  feet." 

VII. 

.   .   .  Occupation  delightful  to  Mark  it  had  proved 
To  instruct  young  Celeste  in  the  art  that  he  loved ; 
And  the  more  he  told  her  of  the  things  he  had  told 
To  her  mother  in  dearly  recalled  days  of  old, 
The  more  strongly  of  Helen's  ways  her  ways  partook, 
The  more  often  did  Helen's  eyes  out  of  hers  look. 

VIII. 

It  was  not  many  evenings  since  he  had  first  called, 
When,  on  taking  his  leave,  Mark  was  startled,  appalled, 
At  two  things:     First,  to  glance  at  his  watch,  and  behold 
The  too  harrowing  tale  its  sad  face  could  have  told, 
If  watch-dials  had  tongues;  secondly,  while  he  held 


While  be  held 

Celeste's  soft,  yielding  band,  that  there  welled 
©ut  of  fathomless  eije-dupths  a  looh  .  .  . 


REMORSE.  341 

Celeste's  soft,  yielding  hands,  that  there  welled 
Out  of  fathomless  eye-depths  a  look  that  so  glowed 
As  in  eyes  of  a  young  maiden  look  never  should, 
Where  love  gives  not  the  charter,  to  tongue  and  to  eye, 
To  speak  language  that  nature  is  fain  to  supply. 

IX. 

Mark  might  well  be  appalled.     It  is  not  a  light  thing 
To  awaken  in  such  a  breast  germs  slumbering, 
Though  but  stir  they  as  dreamer  may  fitfully  break 
From  the  chains  of  soft  sleep  ere  the  day-god  doth  shake 
His  gold  locks,  and  the  world  and  the  soul  doth  arouse, 
And  put  slumber  to  shame. 

x. 

He  had  not  dared  to  pause, 

And  a  second  time  meet  that  look  then,  but,  while  guilt 
His  heart  flushing  no  less  than  his  features  he  felt, 
Hastened  to  his  hotel,  and  thence  took  the  first  train 
For  his  farm. 

XI. 

.   .   .   Burning  still  all  the  way  was  his  brain. 


XII. 

.  .   .   Reaching  home,  he  put  saddle  on  his  fleetest  steed, 
And  rode  over  the  prairie  at  fiercest  of  speed, 
Seeking  thus  from  the  strong  breath  of  nature  to  draw 
Tonic  courage  to  meet  the  new  danger  he  saw ; 
Then  bent  sternly  to  labor :  held  plow  ;  wielded  fork  ; 
Lifted  spade ;  handled  hoe ;  did  all  menial  work  ; 
And  he  thought,  ever  thought,  while  he  struggled  away, 
On  the  day  he  returned,  and  the  following  day, 


342  HELEN. 

And  the  day  after  that,  and  the  next,  and  the  next ; 
And  he  preached  to  himself,  with  the  heart  for  a  text, 
And  expounded  the  ethics  of  life  and  of  love 
To  himself;  and  thus  to  himself  did  he  prove, 
With  most  logical  clearness,  that  he,  Landis,  was 
Little  less  than  a  villain,  infracting  clear  laws, 
If  not  those  that  were  human,  at  least  those  divine ; 
Then  did  penance,  like  Henry  at  slain  Becket's  shrine. 

XIII. 

And  these  thoughts  led  him  into  a  searching  review 
Of  his  life  for  the  past  score  of  years. 

He  went  through 

The  whole  vista,  back  into  empirical  days, 
When  his  course  first  branched  out  into  widening  ways ; 
And  through  years  full  of  promise   and  years  full  of  pain, 
And  through  seasons  of  loss  and  through  seasons  of  gain, 
Traced  the  breaking  of  trust  through  the  clouds  of  despair; 
His  escape  from  the  lowest  ambition's  set  snare ; 
His  way  o'er  the  dull  years  of  hard  labor  to  health ; 
And  the  sacrifice  offered  of  art  unto  tilth. 

XIV. 
"  And  what  is  the  net  gain?" 

Thus  he  questioned  himself. 

' '  I  have  gained  in  blood,  brawn,  tan,  horse-knowledge,  and  pelf ; 
I  have  won  high  repute  as  a  breeder  of  steers, 
While  my  sheep  and  my  pigs  have  been  noted  for  years. 
I've  secured  a  strong  footing  at  fairs  and  horse-shows, 
And  my  word  carries  weight  as  a  breeder  of  cows. 

xv. 

t 

"  This  my  gain,  then,  has  been  ;  and  does  this  gain  suffice? 
Does  it  compensate  me  for  the  loss  of  the  prize 
Which  I  set  out  to  win  in  those  jubilant  years, 


REMORSE.  343 

When,  full  armed  with  resolve,  I  laughed  down  all  my  fears? 

True,  my  life  I  have  won :  this  is  something — how  much? 

Saving  it,  I  have  lost  that  deft,  delicate  touch, 

Wherewith  once  I  felt  equal  to  cope  with  the  great, 

Some  grand  work  with  my  pencil  in  time  to  create, 

And  thus  build  for  myself  a  sure  roadway  to  fame. 

When  truth  gave  me  the  sign  that  my  confident  claim 

On  far  years  health  impeached,  I  looked  fate  in  the  face ; 

On  fame's  scroll  thought  a  name  in  my  heart's  blood  to  trace, 

To  be  read  in  the  story  of  art ;  and  then  die. 

This  were  great,  and  courageous.     This  were  to  aim  high, 

And  to  miss  not  the  mark. 

"  But  I  lowered  1113-  aim. 
Immortality's  hope  sank  in  rustic  acclaim  ! 
I  missed  that :  I  won  this.     I  have  lived.     I  have  shunned 
The  fate  then  close  impending.     My  soul  I  have  sunned 
In  material  luck. 

XVI. 

"This  I've  won.     Yet  I've  lost 
In  the  battle  of  life.     At  by  far  too  great  cost 
I  have  reaped  small  advantages,  counting  for  naught 
In  the  reckoning  genius  against  me  has  brought. 
I  possessed  a  rare  gift,  and  I  bartered  it  off 
For  a  few  years  of  life,  more  or  less,  in  the  rough. 

XVII. 

"As  if,  just  in  the  opening  hour  of  a  battle, 
When  the  muskets  of  skirmishers  already  rattle, 
One  who  is  assigned  to  a  charge  in  the  struggle 
Should  shrink  at  the  rallying  call  of  the  bugle, 
And  shirk  with  the  cowardly  plea :      'Life  is  dear, 
And  'tis  better  to  save  it  than  peril  it  here, 
Where  renown  at  such  cost  must  be  won  ;  thus  I'll  turn 


344  HELEN. 

From  the  danger- fraught  scene,  and  leave  others  to  earn 
The  dear  honor  that  comes  but  with  wounding  and  death, 
Content  glory  to  lose  with  the  saving  of  breath ;  '- 
So  have  I,  in  my  earth-hugging  paltering,  done; 
So  fled  I,  craven-like,  with  life's  fight  scarce  begun, 
Seeking  safety ,  and  peace,  and  a  nameless  career, 
With  the  demon  Remorse  hissing  scorn  in  my  ear. 

XVIII. 

"  And  while  thus  I  have  been  yielding  up,  one  by  one, 
The  stern  requisites  fame  was  dependent  upon, 
Can  it  be  that  I've  yielded  up  something  beyond — 
Something  of  the  nice  sense  that  forms  honor's  true  bound? 
While  with  time  I  have  compromised  all  the  years  through, 
And  have  lowered  my  once  lofty  aim,  is  it  true 
That  I've  lowered  as  well  manhood's  standard  of  tone? 
I^et  my  course  for  the  months  that  have  recently  flown 
Give  the  answer. 

"Am  I  the  Mark  L,andis  who  stood, 

Laughing  down,  once,  temptation's  soul-pestering  brood? 
And  am  I  the  Mark  Landis  who  scorned  the  world's  ways — 
Scorned  them  only  to  follow  them  into  the  maze 
Ol  flirtation,  and  grow  but  a  trifler  in  things 
To  which  all  that  is  best  in  life's  gentler  realm  clings? 

XIX. 

"  Ah,  my  days  have  been  barren  indeed !     Having  lost 
High  ambition's  great  hopes,  honor's  line  having  crossed, 
I  stand  here  where  the  ways  of  existence  divide, 
With  a  youth  grown  to  thistles  on  life's  farther  side. 

xx. 
"  And  now,  what  is  there  left? 

' '  To  live  on  with  my  steers, 
And  my  colts,  and  my  pigs,  to  the  end  of  my  years ; 


REMORSE.  345 

And  then,  quitting  ignobly  the  purposeless  strife, 
As  unnoticed  as  possible  sink  out  of  life  ;— 

XXI. 

"  Unless  ;" 

Here,  with  a  thrill,  and  a  strange,  startled  air, 
(In  the  moonlight  he  sat,  in  his  old  easy  chair,) 
Landis  paused  in  his  musings ;  and  half  do  I  think 
That  the  man  in  the  moon  must  have  given  a  wink, 
And  a  smile  in  the  bargain  ;  for  that  man  observed 
(If  he  did  not,  his  eyesight  a  poor  purpose  served) 

* 

Flit  across,  then,  the  sombre,  stern  face  of  the  farmer 

A  soft,  tender  light,  which  his  cold  heart  made  warmer — 

That  is,  the  cold  heart  of  the  man  in  the  moon, 

Whose  demeanor  we  could  not  with  justice  impugn  ; 

For  throughout  the  long  ages  in  which  he  had  kept 

At  his  post,  he  had  looked  on  while  conscience-storms  swept 

Over  spirits  the  cleanest  and  truest ;  known  hearts 

Pure  as  crystal  deep  pierced  by  contrition's  keen  darts, 

And  seen  blameless-lived  saints  mortifying  the  flesh 

By  long  fastings  severe  and  the  flagellant  lash  ; 

And  he  might  well  have  smiled,  as  we,  reader,  may  smile, 

To  see  our  chosen  hero  assume  so  much  guile, 

As  such  sensitive  souls  have  been  wonted  to  do, 

Since  one  Nature  to  copy  wras  held  up  to  view, 

All  transcendent ; 

' '  Unless  I  should  list  to  the  whispers 
That  come  like  the  prayer  of  a  maiden  at  vespers, 
Sweet,  gentle,  inspiring,  with  rhythmic  wealth  laden, 
L,ike  charmed  refrain  sung  afar  in  fair  Aidenn." 

XXII. 

The  old  calendar  print  all  have  seen,  I  presume, 

Of  the  hard-tempted  saint,  in  his  cell's  sombre  gloom, 


:UG 


HELEN. 


Close  surrounded  by  forms  bright,  luxuriant,  fair, 
Seeking  his  austere  soul  in  their  wiles  to  ensnare. 

XXIII. 

Came  to  Landis  temptation  in  shape  of  a  devil 

That  shunned,  at  first,  e'en  the  appearance  of  evil ; 

Came  clothed  in  suggestions  all  gleaming  and  golden ; 

Came  calling  to  life  yearnings  silenced  and  olden  ; 

Came  telling  a  lying  tale  devils  all  tell, 

Of  a  might-have-been  vanished,  that  may  be  lived  still; 

Of  a  changing  of  life's  tidal  ebbing  and  flow, 

In  maturity's  veins  causing  youth's  fires  to  glow  ; 

Of  a  stoppage  of  hands  on  the  dial  of  time  ; 

And  of  grafting  on  age  the  new,  fresh  plants  of  prime. 

XXIV. 

Then,  in  struggling  against  this  temptation,  Mark  felt 
His  strength  yield,  and  his  hitherto  steadfast  will  melt ; 
And  his  hold  upon  earthly  things  weakening  seemed. 
.   .   .   (The  truth  is,  he  was  drowsy,  and,  drowsing,  he  dreamed.) 

XXV. 

.   .   .   He  was  back  in  the  morning- years.     Health  on  her  throne 
Sat,  while  coming  years  smilingly  beckoned  him  on  ; 
And  he  wandered  alone  in  a  realm  filled  with  art : 
Concord  reigned  in  the  land,  while  peace  reigned  in  his  heart. 
All  the  forms,  shapes,  and  phases  of  beauty  were  there, 
And  all  objects  in  harmony :  naught  but  was  fair. 
Nature  sympathized  wholly  with  Art,  and  her  face 
Was  refulgent  with  grandeur,  and  beaut}-,  and  grace. 
Rapt,  he  gazed  on  the  landscape  spread  out  to  his  sight, 
Bathed  in  effluent,  mellowed,  and  mist-softened  light, 
Edged  around  with  horizons  of  purple  and  gold, 
And  in  undulate  billows  of  emerald  rolled  ; 
While  unceasingly  music  of  "murmuring  streams 


REMORSE;.  34? 

Filled  the  vibrating  air  of  this  sweet  land  of  dreams. 

XXVI. 

As,  with  grateful  emotions  of  wonderment  moved, 

Through  the  scene  of  bewildering  beauty  he  roved, 

A  young  child  approached,  and,  taking  him  by  the  hand, 

Led  him  through  the  spelled  paths  of  the  beautiful  land ; 

On  and  on  led  him  through  a  still  variant  scene, 

Such  as  ne'er  to  his  fancy  foreshadowed  had  been. 

Art  with  Nature  vied  ever  in  charming  the  sense, 

Through  developing  beauty's  untold  opulence. 

He  saw  nimbused  Madonnas  of  saintlier  grace 

Than  a  Raphael  e'er  had  the  genius  to  trace ; 

Forms  in  sculpture  he  viewed  that  might  Phidias  shame ; 

Rounded  domes  that  made  Angelo's  glory  seem  tame; 

And  such  mirrors  of  Nature  as  Nature's  self  charmed, 

And  her  breast  with  the  fulness  of  loveliness  warmed. 

XXVII. 

Thus,  through  marvels  in  marble,  on  canvas,  in  bronze, 
Passed  they,  all  Mark's  soul  still  in  captivity's  bonds, 
And  still  ceaselessly  stirred  with  glad,  sentient  surprise , 
Until  beauty's  sweet  plethora  wearied  his  eyes. 

XXVIII. 

Then  the  fairy-like  child  in  grace  suddenly  grew, 

And  in  figure  was  changed  before  his  entranced  view ; 

And  ere  his  wildered  soul  fully  realized  yet 

The  bright  scene  of  enchantment  before  him  thus  set, 

In  the  freshness  of  girlhood,  with  gentle  grace  worn, 

In  the  breaking  aurora  of  womanhood's  morn, 

Stood,  a  queen  in  the  realm,  and  obeyed  in  behest, 

The  sweet  graft  of  Provence,  the  dark,  large-eyed  Celeste; 

Yet  less  like  the  Celeste  who  beamed  on  him  to-day 

Than  the  Helen  he  knew  in  the  years  far  away. 


348  HELEN. 

XXIX. 

The  Queen  now,  as  the  child  had  done,  gave  him  her  hand, 
And  they  wandered,  by  zephyrs  with  balm  laden  fanned, 
Till  they  came  to  a  throne  of  pure  opal ;  and  there, 
While  the  songs  of  all  birds  thrilled  the  resonant  air, 
And  rare,  blossoming  plants  filled  the  land  with  perfume, 
Did  the  Queen  of  Art's  Province  her  sceptre  resume, 
And  her  throne ;  and  she  beckoned  to  him  to  draw  near. 
He  approached,  and  the  regnante  spoke  but  for  his  ear: 
"  O,  beloved  of  my  soul,  sit  thou  here  by  my  side  ! 
Thou  art  king  of  my  heart:  here,  too,  reign  and  abide!" 

XXX. 

With  the  silvery  tones  ringing  still  in  his  ears, 
Mark  awoke  to  the  issues  of  life  and  of  years, 
And  to  smitings  of  conscience,  renewed,  reinforced, 
By  the  weft  of  his  dreamings. 

XXXI. 

.   .   .  Perturbedly  coursed 

All  his  current  of  thought ;  and  again  he  resumed 
His  severe  and  stern  searchings  of  .self. 

He  now  doomed 

Ignominiously,  at  the  start,  each  fond  hope, 
Each  faint  shadow  thereof,  that  his  dream  conjured  up. 
Thus  began  he  ;  and  then  he  went  on  with  the  work  ; 
And,  his  habit  not  being  to  dodge  or  to  shirk, 
The  grim  business  completed. 

Thus,  when  he  was  done, 

Some  things  had  been  resolved,  which,  when  acted  upon, 
Would  reach  down  to  the  springs  that  change  currentsof  years, 
And  renew  all  the  phases  that  human  life  wears. 


REMORSE.  349 

XXXII. 

One  day,  like  a  glad  sunburst,  appeared  at  the  farm 
Sweet  Celeste,  and  forthwith  the  old  homestead  grew  warm 
With  the  glow  of  her  genial  presence,  the  gloom 
Which  had  been  lurking  there  for  bright  cheer  making  room. 
Mark  and  Helen,  whose  intercourse  now  was  more  strained, 
Had  the  distance  between  them  severely  maintained, 
And  with  shadows  invested  the  past-hallowed  place, 
Which  were  driven  away  by  Celeste's  gentle  grace. 

XXXIII. 

Landis  called  on  Celeste  there,  as  in  duty  bound ; 

But  no  further  occasion  this  amateur  found 

To  gaze  into  the  depths  of  her  art-tutor's  eyes, 

As  he  kept  careful  guard  against  any  surprise, 

And  all-feeling  within  its  due  limits  restrained; 

For,  though  bright  be  the  sunshine,  there  must  be  maintained 

Requisite  discipline  and  solemnity  where 

Persons  tread  over  graves,  as  was  now  the  case  there. 


CANTO  ELEVENTH. 


RETRIEVAL. 


I. 

Among  other  things  Mark  had  reproached  himself  for, 
Was  his  course  with  respect  to  fair  Blanche.     Upon  her 
He  had  thus  far  been  wont  to  look  but  in  the  light 
Of  a  source  of  diversion,  keen,  novel,  and  bright — 
As  a  section  of  sunshine  his  path  thrown  upon, 
Warming  all  the  air  round  him ;  accustomed  had  grown 
To  treat  her  as  a  proper,  legitimate  source 
Of  still  fresh  entertainment  whenever  the  course 
Of  the  blood  through  his  veins  became  turbid  or  slow, 
Or  the  clouds  of  regretful  reflection  hung  low. 

ii. 

He  had  never  thought  farther  than  this ;  had  not  asked 
Of  himself  what  the  end  was  to  be,  while  he  basked 
In  the  light  of  her  smiles,  which  he  could  but  discern 
Beamed  with  brightness  especial  whene'er  in  her  urn 
He  burned  incense,  which,  ruefully  be  it  confessed, 
He  had  lately  been  learning  to  do  with  the  rest. 

in. 

Blanche  all  hopes  had  relinquished  that  she  may  have  nursed 
Of  e'er  winning  the  heart  of  all  hearts  to  her  first, 
And  with  things  as  they  were  seemed  to  be  satisfied, 
While  the  means  of  amusement  for  him  she  supplied. 


RETRIEVAL. 

IV. 

But  was  Mark  right  in  making  such  use  of  a  soul 
With  his  own  a  full  peer,  and  in  no  wise  a  thrall  ? 

v. 

• 

In  the  olden  time,  when  there  were  jesters  at  court, 
'Twas  the  monarchs  and  nobles  who  made  them  their  sport 
Were  debased,  rather  than  the  poor  jester  himself; 
But  to-day,  with  this  custom  long  laid  on  the  shelf, 
There  are  ways  still  existent  in  which  men  degrade 
Their  own  souls,  while  of  other  souls  footballs  are  made. 
There's  a  species  of  dallying  frequently  plied 
By  the  best-meaning  men,  that  is  closely  allied 
To  the  rankest  coquetry  the  soft  sex  commit, 
And  no  less  deserves  censure. 

That  women  permit 

Marked  civilities  too  closely  pressed,  in  no  wise 
Justifies  those  who  pay  them.     To  blindfold  the  eyes 
Does  not  alter  the  truth,  and  the  conscience  to  steel 
Does  not  cancel  the  guilt  that  strict  honor  should  feel-' — 
Guilt  in  honor's  court  standing  recorded,  alas, 
Of  too  many  who  muster  as  gentlemen  pass. 

VI. 

As  I've  said,  Mark  was  now  doing  penance:  and  one 
Of  the  acts  thereof  he  had  determined  upon, 
Was  to  make  reparation  to  Blanche. 

Now,  the  way 

In  which  this  was  achieved  is  so  rare  in  this  day, 
That  I  hesitate  somewhat  in  telling  it,  fearing 
I  shall  be  accused  of  to  truth  not  adhering. 

VII. 

When  next  into*  the  city  our  penitent  went, 

Were  his  steps  straight  to  Blanche  Adair's  residence  bent ; 


352  HELEN. 

And,  with  very  small  parley  the  talk  to  prelude, 
Conversation  to  be  long  remembered  ensued. 

VIII. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  Miss  Blanche,  whether  you  are  engaged 
To  Ray  Wrentham  or  not?" 

IX. 

"Frankly.     I  am  not  pledged 
Yet  by  any  thing  binding. ' ' 

x. 

' '  So  had  I  supposed ; 

Though  I  thought  it  quite  strange  he  should  not  have  proposed ; 
And  continued  my  calls  ('tis  now  in  the  third  year !) 
Till  the  rights  of  a  known  fiance  should  appear. 
But  I  deem  it  comports  not  with  that  which  belongs 
To  a  gentleman,  when  one  attentions  prolongs 
To  a  lady  so  far  as  to  notice  to  bring 
His  relations  with  her,  without  tender  of  ring 
Plighting  troth. 

"  None  I  judge.     For  myself,  though,  I  must 
Say  and  do  what  I  hold  to  be  right,  to  be  just, 
In  the  light  of  my  course  with  relation  to  you, 
Without  heed  to  what  others  have  done,  or  may  do. 
.   .   .  Blanche  Adair,  I  now  ask  you  my  wife  to  become, 
If  you  care  to  share  with  me  a  plain  farmer's  home." 

XI. 

In  her  time  Blanche  too  many  proposals  had  heard, 
By  this  one  in  composure  at  all  to  be  stirred ; 
Yet  that  it  unexpectedly  came,  was  as  clear 
As  that  not  at  all  harshly  it  fell  on  her  ear. 

XII. 

A  brief  moment  she  paused ;  the  proponent  then  faced, 
With  a  look  deep  and  searching ;  but  nothing  she  traced 


RETRIEVAL.  353 

Satisfactory  to  her. 

Then  slowly  she  said : 
4i  You  don't  love  me,  Mark  L,andis  !" 

XIII., 

' '  No  claim  have  I  made 

To  a  feeling  for  you  such  as  springs  from  the  heart. 
If  my  acts  have  deceived  you,  'tis  blame  on  my  part." 

XIV. 

4 '  On  that  score  have  no  scruples.     No  blame  rests  on  you  ; 
For  I've  not  been  deceived.     I  have  had  in  full  view 
The  clear  truth,  which  ne'er  once  since  the  first  hour  we  met 
Could  my  heart  disregard  or  my  reason  forget." 

xv. 

"L,ove,  you  hold,  as  I've  oft  from  your  lips  understood, 
Non-essential  is  in  '  mariage  a  la  mode.' ' 

XVI. 

"So  I've  strongly  declared.     I  could  be  a  good  wife, 
And  could  sweeten  the  years  of  an  honest  man's  life, 
Without  loving  him." 

XVII. 

"So  hold  not  I ;  yet,  Miss  Blanche, 
At  your  own  word  I've  taken  you,  not  en  revanche, 
But  with  firm  and  sincerely  formed  purpose  to  prove 
To  yourself  such  a  husband  as  must  inspire  love." 

XVIII. 

1 '  But  the  wife  of  Mark  Landis  I  never  could  be, 
Unless  he  with  his  heart  and  his  soul  should  love  me." 

XIX. 

*'  Why  of  me  an  exception  thus  make?" 

xx. 

' '  Because  you 
Are  exceptionable  among  men.     Ere  I'm  through, 


354  HELEN. 

I  will  fully  explain. 

"  But,  first,  please  understand 
That  'tis  no  artifice  of  coquetry  I've  planned, 
To  coax  stronger  avowals,  when  thus  I  decline 
The  proposal  )'ou  make  to  link  your  fate  and  mine. 
.   .   .  I  presume  you  by  no  means  expect  I'll  avow 
The  plain,  unvarnished  truth  to  you.     We  are  just  now 
At  the  stage,  in  such  cases,  where  feigning  begins 
In  good  earnest.     But,  somehow,  with  all  of  my  sins 
In  this  line,  I'm  impelled  to  be  honest  with  you ; 
Which  is  something  in  no  way  praiseworthy  to  do ; 
For  with  you  to  speak  truth  is  an  easier  task 
Than  with  any  soul  wearing  mortality's  mask. 

XXI. 

"  And,  Mark  L,andis,  this  point-blank  rejection  now  leaves 
Blanche  Adair's  tongue  unloosed,  and  the  right  to  her  gives 
With  a  freedom  to  speak  such  as  rarely  accrues 
To  a  woman — a  right  that  I'm  not  loath  to  use. 

XXII. 

"  Know  this,  then,  that  I  love  you! 

"  And,  pray,  do  not  start, 

With  astonishment  large,  that  the  light  Blanche's  heart 
Should  be  once  capable  of  a  feeling  like  love! 
Could  the  right  heart  love  hers,  what  a  faith  could  she  prove! 

XXIII. 

' '  No,  Mark  L,andis  !     Unless  I  possessed  your  whole  heart — 
And  demand  I  should  make  for  the  uttermost  part — 
Truth  tells  me  I  could  never  be  happy  with  you 
As  your  wife; — though,  since  fate  in  one  path  our  feet  threw, 
Have  the  suns  as  they  coursed  seemed  more  brightly  to  shine, 
And  rare  seasons  of  joy  and  delight  have  been  mine, 
Even  after  I  yielded  all  hope  of  one  day 


RETRIEVAL.  .  35? 

To  your  heart  gaining  entrance  and  there  holding  sway. 
'Tis  a  pleasure  to  meet  you,  and  call  you  my  friend, 
And  to  love  you,  as  you  I  must  love,  to  the  end,— 
Not  with  grievous  repinings  and  longings — O,  no  ! 
These  are  not  for  the  gay  Blanche  Adair  e'er  to  show. 

XXIV. 

"  I  know  now  where  your  heart  is.     I  did  not,  until 
The  Rolfes  came.     On  that  evening,  in  the  quadrille, 
'Twas  revealed  to  me  as  by  electrical  flash. 
That  scene  served  to  earth  any  hope  remnant  to  dash. 

XXV. 

"  But  not  this  alone  have  I  observed.     I  have  seen, 
On  the  part  of  the  being  whose  star  you  have  been 
Through  the  long  night  of  memory,  evidence  plain 
That  the  love  of  life's  morning  has  never  known  wane. 
'Twas  the  hope  that  expired  with  her  advent — a  hope 
That  could  not  with  a  love  between  such  natures  cope — 
Which  induced  me  to  hold  thus  in  dalliance  long 
The  young  Englishman.     Has  not  my  tenure  been  strong? 
Have  I  not  most  adroitly  manoeuvred  ?     This  is  the  way 
We  society  belles — we  coquettes,  if  you  will — our  games  play; 
And  methinks  Blanche  Adair  with  the  best  holds  her  own  ! 
I  have  not  won  your  love,  for  'twas  not  to  be  won ; 
But  I'm  satisfied  !     Pleasant  has  been  the  pursuit, 
Although  home  it  has  brought  not  the  waited-for  fruit. 

XXVI. 

..."  Now,  then,  tell  me,  Mark  Landis,  with  your  tongue 

of  truth, 

That  at  heart  you  despise  me,  and  my  want  of  ruth  ; 
And  let  me  my  own  ways  in  the  world  go,  while  you 
Shall  go  yours ;  and  thus  let  it  be  said  there  are  two 


358  HELEN. 

Of  the  myriad  hearts  in  this  heart-o'erstocked  world, 
That  each  other  have  never  deceived. ' ' 

XXVII. 

.  .   .  With  lips  curled, 

And  a  tinge  on  each  cheek,  which  persistently  strove 
With  the  paleness  that  else  therefrom  all  color  drove, 
She  stood,  fearless  and  fair,  looking-  straight  in  the  eye 
Him  'twas  hers  to  love,  honor,  respect,  and  defy ; 
Whom  she  feared,  and  yet  feared  not  :  held,  and  released. 

XXVIII. 

For  some  moments  Mark  stood,  after  Blanche  had  thus  ceased, 
With  thrilled  interest  moved,  although  scarce  with  surprise, 
Gazing  silently  into  her  bright  hazel  eyes — 
Brighter  now  with  the  light  in  their  clear  depths  that  glowed, 
Than  e'er  yet  the}'  had  been  in  all  changes  of  mood. 

XXIX. 

''Blanche  Adair,"  he  now  said,  "with  a  strange  frankness 

fraught 

Are  your  words.     But  by  those  let  a  verdict  be  brought 
Who  are  competent :  I  have  no  judgment  to  give  : 
I  have  no  stone  to  throw,  Blanche,  while  you  and  I  live ; 
For  to  one  heart  the  soul  of  true  justice  you've  been, 
And  that  heart  is  not  blameless,  whate'er  be  your  sin. 
.  .   .  But  still  further  let  me  extend  frankness,  and  say, 
That  the  love  you  think  lives  as  of  old,  is  to-day, 
If  it  ever  lived,  dead  upon  one  side,  although, 
I  am  free  to  say,  not  upon  mine." 

XXX. 

"  Nay,  not  so  . 

O,  my  friend,  not  for  naught  have  I  studied  the  heart ! 
Not  for  naught  on  heart-subjects  I've  practiced  my  art ! 
Her  I've  met  unto  whom  your  heart  has  been  as  true 


RETRIEVAL.  359 

As  the  shell  to  its  lover  the  sea ;  looked  her  through ; 
Probed  and  studied  her  ;  felt  her  deep  scorn  ;  and  I  say 
That  her  love  never  did,  never  will  die  away  !" 

XXXI. 

"Ah!  be  not  overwise  in  your  day,  Blanche  Adair! 
Hold  not  out  to  me  hopes  that  are  speciously  fair!" 

xxxn. 

"From  what  motive  should  I  these  facts  misstate  to  you, 
When  my  life  I  would  give  but  to  have  them  untrue? 
.   .   .   But,  my  friend — may  I  still  call  you  so?" 

"  While  years  last." 

"  On  your  friendship  the  burden  will  you  let  me  cast 
Of  a  confidence  ?" 

"  What  you  may  please." 

' '  Ere  your  name 
Was  announced,  from  Ray  Wrenthamthis  sharp  letter  came: 

XXXIII. 
DEAR     Miss     BLANCHE: 

I  scarce  think  you  can  reasonably 
In  the  least  wise  importunate  deem  it  in  me, 
To  insist  that  the  time  has  now  come  to  demand 
Something  definite  from  you  concerning  your  hand. 
Hitherto,  when  I've  sought  to  draw  this  from  your  lips, 
Your  charmed  converse  has  ever  availed  to  eclipse 
My  persistent  and  firmly  resolved  questionings. 
But  relentless  time,  Blanche,  other  life-issues  brings ; 
And  I  beg  you'll  recall  what  you're  wont  to  declare. 
That  love  should  not  be  made  too  strong  tension  to  bear. 
I  start  on  a  brief  trip  to  the  country,  to-day, 
An  old  visit,  to  Wrentham  Hall  made,  to  repay. 
If  I  find,  on  returning,  (a  week  or  two  hence,) 


360 


HELEN. 


No  decision  yet  rendered,  my  visits  from  thence, 
As  a  suitor,  will  cease. 

Sweet,  Miss  Blanche,  are  your  words, 

Are  your  ways,  is  your  smile,  is  your  life ;  and  while  cords 
Harshly  stricken  will  vibrate  with  pain,  yet  there's  due 
To  myself  a  stern  duty  no  less  than  to  you. 
Still  my  hand,  and  my  name,  hold  I  at  your  command  ; 
And  the  word,  as  of  old,  of  a  Wrentham  will  stand. 
Ivet  me  beg  you  to  choose,  then,  by  yea  or  by  nay, 
And  release  from  suspense 

Your  still  loyal  friend, 

RAY. 

XXXIV. 

"This, concisely,"  said  Blanche,  "  does  Ray  Wrentham's  note 

mean : 

Halts  my  knight  from  far  Albion  two  loves  between, 
As  men  often  have  halted  since  love  was  first  born, 
And  as  men  will  oft  halt  while  love's  chains  shall  be  worn. 
Passion  strongest  of  man,  that  hath  ever  had  bud 
And  had  bloom,  since  the  dove  told  the  ebb  of  the  flood, 
Its  degrees  hath,  its  weakness,  its  faintness  of  breath, 
Its  all-jubilant  life,  its  decay,  and  its  death." 

XXXV. 

"  Do  you  this  rule  apply  unto  man's  love  alone?" 

XXXVI. 

"  Woman's  less  have  I  tested,"  she  answered,  in  tone 
Of  arch  frankness. 

"  But,  my  confidant,  tell  me,  pray, 
How  to  act  in  this  case.     Come !     I'll  do  as  you  say  ! 
You  shall  arbiter  be.     'Tis  for  you  to  declare 
What  the  future  shall  be  of  your  friend  Blanche  Adair  !" 


RETRIEVAL.  361 

XXXVII. 

"  Does  Ray  know  that  you  love  him  no  more?" 

' '  He  believes 

That  my  love  is  as  green  as  the  mistletoe  leaves." 
"Blanche!" 

"  You  start." 

"I'm  impelled  to  admit  I  am  pained !" 

XXXVIII. 

"  I  perceive  you  know  little  of  flirting,  my  friend. 

Well,  'tis  not  a  misfortune  to  lack  in  this  lore ; 

For  this  one  thing  you  ever  may  reckon  as  sure : 

That  yet  never  did  any  flirtation  proceed, 

Which  was  not  based  on  falsehood,  in  word  or  in  deed. 

With  this  instrumentality  taken  away, 

Bless  me !  how  would  we  belles  hold  our  silvery  sway? 

XXXIX. 

"And  now,  while  in  the  mood,  let  me  sing  you  an  air, 
Which  embodies  the  code  of  your  friend  Blanche  Adair. 
'Tis  no  code  that  Mark  L,andis  could  ever  approve, 
But  this  code  is  in  force  in  the  world's  courts  of  love." 

XL. 

The  piano  he  opened  for  her ;  and,  in  strains 
That  seemed  bidding  defiance  to  fate,  these  refrains 
She  poured  forth,  while,  with  feelings  confused, 
Half  offensively  shocked,  half  surpris'dly  amused, 
He  attentively  listened,  as  clear  her  notes  rang, 
And  thus  lightly  of  love's  earthly  tenure  she  sang: 


HELEN. 


i. 

I  loved  a  maid  when  life  was  tender  ; 
I  loved  her  with  my  heart  and  soul, 
With  passion  serving  to  engender 
Conceit  that  I  held  full  control 
Of  her  heart's  springs 
And  fancyings. 

ii. 
My    love  exceeded  rhyme  or  reason  ; 

I  fait  no  doubts,  nor  harbored  fears  ; 
To  hold  love  mortal  was  but  treason  ; 

I  deemed  it  hemmed  not  by  earth's  years. 
But  looked  beyond 
For  its  true  bound. 

in. 
My  maid  had  vowed  love  past  all  telling  ; 

Her  troth  had  she  eternal  deemed ; — 
Yet  absence  chilled  her  faith  up-welling ; 
Another  dream  of  love  she  dreamed  ; 
Another's  breast 
Her  heart  gave  rest. 

IV. 

But  sweet  requital  gained  I  gladly  : 

A  second  maid  I  loved  as  well 
As  that  first  one  I  wooed  so  madly  ; 
Yea,  loved  her  better,  sooth  to  tell ; 
And  now  my  heart 
Feels  not  love's  smart. 

v. 

• 

And  should  this  one  likewise  betray  me, 

Another  joyfully  I'll  hail ; 
Another  shall  console  and  stay  me ; — 
His  votaries  ne'er  doth  IJros  fail. 
Thus  shall  my  heart 
Repel  love's  smart. 


RETRIEVAL.  3(J3 

VI. 

Love  I  no  more  regard  eternal ; 

I  pledge  my  dear  but  this  warm  life. 
Let  others  taste  love's  joys  supernal  : 
Give  me  the  love  of  earth's  thrilled  strife, 
With  fealty  blent,     . 
And  I'm  content. 

VII. 

Thus  peer  I  ne'er  beyond  the  portal 

That  opes  into  futurity  ; 
If  true  my  dear  be  while  she's  mortal, 
Beyond  the  Styx  she  shall  be  free. 
And  thus  my  heart 
Shuns  e'er  love's  smart. 


XLI. 

The  song  finished,  she  turned  to  the  master  who  stood 
At  her  side — he  who  could  have  controlled  her  least  mood, 
At  whose  bidding  naught  was  there  she  would  not  have  done, 
Or  have  dared,  or  endured ;  and  the  theme  they  were  on 
Thus  resumed : 

"As  to  Wrentham  :  what  do  you  decide?" 

XLII. 

Mark  was  silent  a  space ;  then  in  earnest  replied : 

"  Though  you  sing,  as  you  speak,  in  light  tones,  Blanche  Adair, 

Through  your  eyes  I  look  into  your  soul,  and  see  there 

Capability  great  things  to  do.     I  appeal 

To  that  soul  to  prove  once  more  to  womanhood  leal, 

And,  a  second  time  in  one  for  me  deathless  day, 

To  show  forth  such  true  courage  as  Blanche  Adair  may. 

To  yon  ancient  and  time-honored  halls  do  not  go, 

To  make  there  of  lovejs  mockery  conscienceless  show. 

L,et  Ray  win,  if  inclined  to,  this  young  heart  of  gold  ! 


'364  HELEN. 

That  'tis  'on  with  the  new  love  and  off  with  the  old,' 
Yours  the  blame.      L,et  him  go  ;  and  while  far  summers  teem 
With  their  fruitage  will  my  soul  hold  yours  in  esteem." 

XLIII. 

No  response  came  from  Blanche.      In  her  seat  she  turned  round 
At  the  instrument,  thrummed  at  the  keys,  and  profound 
Her  absorption  in  re  very  seemed,  while  Mark  stood, 
Her  long  silence  respecting,  and  not  in  a  mood 
To  infract  it. 

At  length  the  stirred  cords,  cadent  grown, 
Began  gradually  to  take  measure  and  tone ; 
And  without  premonition  her  silver  voice  sang 
An  air  which  with  unwonted  sincerity  rang, — 
One  in  contrast  most  strange  with  that  she  had  just  sung, 
And  which  had  in  Mark's  mind  with  harsh  dissonance  rung. 

Ki|ier)«lsr)ip's    Y®1*)'2. 

i. 

I've  buried,  'mid  regrets  and  tears, 

A  friendship,  treasured  up  for  years. 

It  shrank  not  'neath  the  summer's  heat ; 

Jn  vain  the  chill  blasts  'gainst  it  beat. 

To   friendship's  tomb,  bereaved  heart,'  bring 
The  fragrant  blossoms  of  the  spring. 
ii. 

But  came  a  breath  by  passion  breathed, 

And  burst  the  garland  lealty  wreathed ; 

And  friendship,  starving  with  neglect, 

Died  in  its  prime,  unstained,  unflecked. 
To  friendship's  tomb  in  summer  bring 
The  blooms  from  earth's  ripe  breast  that  spring, 
in. 

The  dawns  will  come,  the  sunsets  go ; 

The  heart  will  other  friendships  know  ; 


RETRIEVAL.  365 

But,  long  as  truth  shall  houored  be, 

This  first  will  stand  iu  memory. 

To  friendship's  tomb  in  autumn  bring 
The  flowers  that  still  to  earth-life  cling 

IV. 

The  fervent  god  of  love  may  scorch 
The  heart  with  passion's  flaming  torch  ; 
But  ne'er  will  purer  sentiment 
Bless  earth  than  in  this  grave  lies  pent. 
To  friendship's  tomb  in  winter  bring 
The  leaves  the  lorn  trees  from  them  fling. 

XLIV. 

Blanche  arose  from  the  instrument,  and,  facing  Mark, 
Who  preserved  silence  still,  slowly  made  this  remark : 
"You  perceive  I  can  serious  sing  for  the  nonce. 
How  my  improvised  song  do  you  like?" 

XLV. 

"I've  ne'er  once 

Inability  dreamed  of  assigning  to  you 
To  converse,  sing,  or  feel  with  an  earnestness  true. 
I'll  more  gladly  retain  strains  of  this  tender  lay, 
Than  of  that  which,  you  say,  gives  love's  code  of  to-day. 
To  the  latter  will  Memory  deafen  her  ears, 
While  the  former  will  greet  her  through  seasons  and  years." 

XLVI. 

There  had  now  come  some  color  to  Blanche's  white  brow  ; 
And  resuming,  in  tones  at  first  measured  and  low, 
Then  elastic  and  light,  as  in  her  wonted  mood, 
While  with  interest  deepened  Mark  watching  her  stood, 
She  recurred  to  his  last  and  so  earnest  appeal, 
And  assent  gave  in  accents  that  caused  him  to  feel 
That  a  woman  stood  by  him  with  heart  and  with  soul, — 
Though  a  woman,  alas,  who  missed  womanhood's  goal: 


3(36 


HELEN. 


XLVII. 

' '  Passing  pleasant  and  sweet,  to  a  woman  like  me, 
Were  the  fortune  of  Wrentham  Hall  mistress  to  be ; 
But  still  pleasanter,  sweeter  to  gain  is  the  end 
That  shall  win  the  approval  and  praise  of  my  friend. 
I  will  do  what  you  counsel  me :  this  very  day 
I'll  convey  to  Ray  Wrentham  his  half-asked  conge  ; 
And  for  your  sake  I'll  suffer  what  belles  all  ill  brook — 
Supplantation  in  preference. 

XLVIII. 

..."  Now,  I  will  look 
Round  the  field  for  new  conquests. 

"  To  arms  !   Gare!  Heigh-ho  ! 
'Tis  a  merry  world  ! 

..."  Bah  !  a  tear  ! 

.   .   .   "Please,  my  friend,^/" 


CANTO  TWELFTH. 


SHADINGS. 


I. 

Once  a  traveler  stopped  at  Dieppe,  by  the  sea. 

.   .   .  .Old  Dieppe  !  Dear  Dieppe  !     There  are  fairer  than  thee 

Among  towns,  there  are  brighter ;  but  as,  nodding  there 

O'er  thy  tasks,  in  the  mists  of  the  Normandy  air, 

Sittest  thou,  washes  not  the  sea's  billowy  brine 

A  shore  thicker  with  memories,  Dieppe,  than  thine ! 

n. 

Absorbed  fully  as  much  in  the  days  that  were  flown, 
As  in  those  that  relentlessly  ever  march  on, 
Over  relics  and  remnants  of  glories  gone  by, — 
Over  graves,  and  regrets,  and  old  minsters,  where  lie 
Heroes,  sages,  and  bards  the  world  tries  to  forget, 
In  an  age  in  utility's  hard  ethics  set,— 
Strolled  the  wanderer  church  and  cathedral  beside, 
By  the  Norman  erected  in  days  of  his  pride, 
And  at  length  rambled  old  Dieppe's  fish- wharves  among, 
Where  were  gathered  a  seething  and  struggling  throng 
(All  with  huge  market-baskets  strapped  on  their  small  backs) 
Of  tanned,  skinny  fishwives,  who  were  unloading  smacks 
Of  their  herring- freight,  round  the  far  Hebrides  caught, 
And  to  this  port  by  canny  Scots  fishermen  brought, 
Who  in  vain  tried  to  cope,  in  their  starved  Gaelic  brogue, 
With  these  Norman  adepts  in  deep  fish-dialogue. 


368  HELEN. 

III. 

These  quaint  shapes,  with  their  high  caps,  a  la  Normandie, 
And  their  coarse  woollen  skirts,  reaching  scarce  '  neatli  the  knee, 
And  their  clump  wooden  shoes,  (being  cousins,  'tis  proved, 
Of  the  Conqueror  William,  a  few  times  removed,) 
In  their  hard  features  showed  deeply  seamed  lines  of  care, 
And  the  marks  of  time's  usage  the  wretched  all  bear. 
The  vast  mass  of  the  faces  in  henna  seemed  dyed ; 
There  were  few  that  were  not  wrinkled,  shriveled,  and  dried; 
And,  but  for  the  exceeding  large  measure  of  life 
With  which  all  the  bizarre  camaraderie  was  rife, 
One  might  fancy  that  from  Thebes' s  sepulchred  gloom 
Unswathed  mummies  in  squadrons  to  market  had  come. 

IV. 

Here  and  there,  in  this  crowd,  might  be  seen  a  sweet  face, 
Exquisite  in  simplicity,  nature's  own  grace 
Forming  contour  of  loveliness  strikingly  fair, 
With  complexion  bespeaking  health  fresh  as  the  air, 
With  bright  eyes,  rosy  lips,  and  clean  kerchief  and  gown, 
And  neat  cap,  underneath  which  a  curl  struggled  down. 
These  so  strong  contrasts  with  the  witch-faces  were  few, 
But  were  fair  as  rose  moist  still  with  kiss  of  the  dew ; 
And  they  seemed,  'mid  the  rest,  like  doves  vultures  among, 
L,ike  rare  jewels  on  fierce  monsters  idolized  hung, 
Or  like  souls  from  Elysium,  Styx  crossing  o'er. 
Seeking  spirits  lost  on  the  Plutonian  shore. 

v. 

Then  the  traveler,  pondering  on  the  strange  lives 
Of  these  toiling  and  moiling  yet  lively  fishwives, 
Having  knack  of  chance-sketching,  outlined  this  weird  scene, 
Catching  varied  expressions,  harsh,  sordid,  and  mean, 
Anguished,  sorrowing,  reckless,  coarse,  deadened,  and  dull ; 


SHADINGS.  369 

And,  among  them  distributed,  fair,  sweet,  and  full, 

All  the  faces  of  beauty  that  could  be  discerned, 

In  their  newness  of  life,  with  its  lore  all  unlearned ; 

And  sketched  also  the  herring-smacks,  and  a  great  barque, 

Freighting  for  the  dim  shores  that  the  farthest  zones  mark ; 

The  loose  cordage,  and  sails,  and  the  sailors  around, 

Lying  lazy  and  listless ;  some  boats  outward  bound  ; 

With  a  touch  of  the  town,  in  its  garb  antique  dressed ; 

And  the  sun  sinking  down  in  the  purpling  west. 

VI. 

In  far  years  these  stray  sketches  the  wanderer  wrought 
Into  one,  into  which  was  thrown  closest  of  thought 
And  severest  of  toil. 

VII. 

Would  you  like,  reader  mine, 
To  behold  this  so  strongly  ambitious  design 
Upon  canvas  with  faithfulness  placed  ? 

Come  with  me. 

We  will  not  again  cross  the  old  troublesome  sea  ; 
But  I'll  carry  you  back  to  the  prairies  once  more, 
Where  we've  hoped,  smiled,  and  wept,  in'the  dear  days  of  yore, 
With  our  good  friends,  my  characters. 

VIII. 

Enter  this  room, 
From  intrusion  secure. 

Here,  at  times  wrapt  in  gloom, 
Working  ever  with  patience,  enduring  and  strong, 
Work  beginning  betimes,  at  work  lingering  long, 
Working  often  in  pain,  often  in  dark  despair, 
Yet  with  joy  falling  oft  in  brief  gleams  to  her  share — 
The  sweet  joy  of  progressive  achievement, — we  meet 
Dieppe's  visitant. 


3TO  HELEN. 

IX. 

Since  there  by  wharf  and  by  street 

Strolled  the  loiterer,  years  that  brought  healthful  events 
To  bless  earth  have  successively  folded  their  tents 
And  to  silent  oblivion  stolen  away, 

Giving  place  to  those  bringing  change,  chill,  and  decay  ; 
But  unchanged  by  those  years,  and  unchilled  by  the  gulf 
They  have  bridged,  is  the  heart  of  the  true  Helen  Rolfe. 

x. 

Sitting  thus  at  her  painting,  she  broodingly  mused  ; 
Nor  could  labor  dispel  her  sad  musings,  infused 
Though  it  was  with  her  soul's  strong,  intense  energies, 
And  though  sweetened  by  all  of  the  heart's  sympathies. 
For  occurring  events,  by  rude  gossip-breath  blown, 
O'er  this  hallowed  retreat  shadows  baleful  had  thrown, 
Calling  up  morbid  fancies  and  shapes  of  unrest 
In  her  trial-proved,  calm,  and  self-poised  seeming  breast, 
Where  a  buried  hope,  rising  from  out  of  its  tomb, 
Had  been  striving  to  scatter  the  mold  and  the  gloom, 
And  be  clothed  with  the  sunshine. 

XI. 

Thus  ran  the  sad  line 

Of/  reflections  that  burdened  this  spirit  benign  : 
"While,  in  breaking  relations  with  that  faithless  one, 
Wrentham  fills  a  fond  dream  I  had  nursed  for  my  own 
Darling  child;  yet  alas,  this  now  closes  the  door 
On  my  last  hope,  and  him  leaves  to  her  evermore. 
Was  it  wrong  in  me  that  I  would  take  from  its  vase 
The  fond  flower  whose  fragrance  perfumed  my  young  days, 
And  once  more  dream  of  holding  it  tenderly  pressed 
To  my  reconciled,  stilled,  and  renouncing-wont  breast? 


SHADINGS.  371 

And  do  I  in  the  slightest  the  memory  wrong 
Of  the  dead?" 

And  there  came  with  these  broodings  along 
An  increasingly  bitter  resentment  toward  her 
In  whom  fancy  abnormal  saw  Mark's  evil  star. 

XII. 

'Tis  a  proverb  as  old  as  the  cedars  that  grow 

On  Mount  Lebanon's  sides,  that  fair  woman  doth  show 

To  her  own  sex  less  charity  than  to  the  stronger. 

Why  this  should  be  so,  I  have  pondered  on  longer 

Than  on  most  problems  touching  the  daughters  of  Eve, 

Yet  solution  none  cometh  my  mind  to  relieve ; 

And  I'm  still  in  the  dark,  as  I  am  on  the  question 

Why  to  woman's  ear  came  Satan's  primal  suggestion 

Of  evil,   and  not  unto  man's, — or  on  one 

Close  akin  thereto,  over  which  weary  have  grown 

Brains  untold,  to  wit,  why  women  sympathize  more 

With  the  average  Blue-Beard,  with  corses  galore 

In  his  closet,  than  with  the  unfortunate  wight 

Whose  repute  is  as  clean  as  a  cleansed  L,evite, 

Who  no  vices  can  boast,  and  no  seared,  wicked  savor 

Can  show,  to  commend  him  to  feminine  favor. 

One  misstep  let  a  woman  make,  and,  lackaday  ! 

Falls  each  prop  of  support  from  her  sisters  away ; 

But  the  oftener  men  step  aside,  it  would  seem, 

For  them  more  doth  the  soft  sex's  sympathy  teem. 

Why,  alas,  should  this  be?     Mighty  myth  ! 

But  life's  durance 

Too  brief  is  to  give  any  well  based  assurance 
That  reason  (with  all  its  resources  how  mutable !) 
May  e'er  fish  these  lost  Whys  outof  truth'sdepths  inscrutable. 


3?'.2  HELEN. 

XIII. 

Return  we  to  our  heroine,  sitting  alone, 
Nursing  wrongful  resentment  toward  one  who  had  done 
Favor  greatest  for  her  that  a  mortal  could  do, 
And  therein  unto  womanhood  proved  rarely  true. 

XIV. 

That  a  thoroughly  womanly  woman  was  she 

Whose  life-struggles  I'm  telling  in  this  history, 

Is  but  what  I  have  faithfully  aimed  to  set  forth, 

Blind  no  more  to  her  weaknesses  than  to  her  worth. 

In  proportion  as  Helen  had  loved,  she  had  failed; 

But  although  failing  thus,  her  skirts  never  were  trailed 

In  the  dust  of  coquetry,  and  ne'er  had  she  been 

Light  of  purpose  since  sorrow's  first  clouds  she  had  seen. 

There  were  times,  it  is  true,  when  in  gloom  lay  her  path, 

And  around  her  had  broken  the  tempest's  wild  wrath; 

And  mistakes  she  made  oft  as  she  groped  toward  light, 

In  the  seasons  when  troubles  had  curtained  the  right. 

But  a  deep  earnestness  e'er  pervaded  her  days, 

And  made  lovely  her  life  and  engaging  her  ways ; 

While  the  constant  denial  of  self  brought  to  view 

Ever  new  depths  of  worth  in  her  nature  so  true. 

xv. 

With  this  earnestness  coloring  all  her  career, 
Springing  forth  from  a  heart  whose  each  throb  was  sincere, 
And  experiences  such  as  had  been  hers  to  bear, 
Nought  could  Helen  in  common  have  with  Blanche  Adair, 
With  her  life  artificial,  affections  blast, 
Her  adjustable  ethics,  instincts  egart, 
Her  world-knowledge  too  reaching,  her  flirtation  arts, 
And  her  trade,  briskly  driven,  in  men's  bleeding  hearts. 


SHAPINGS. 


373 


XVI. 

And  yet  women  like  Blanche,  with  the  world's  dust  all  stained, 

Ofttimes  rise  to  unselfish  heights  never  attained 

By  those  who  through  life  pass  with  no  step  ever  made 

From  propriety's  rules  deviating  a  shade. 

"Tis  a  sphere  of  their  own  that  they  fill  in  this  world ; 

And  stones  at  them  in  myriads  with  unction  are  hurled, 

As  our  Helen  was  hurling  them. 

Heaven  o'er  all 

Judges  justly — more  justly  than  those  whom  we  call 
Earthly  saints.     Ah,  I  fear  that  sometimes  ill  would  fare 
Many  merit-proved  souls,  if  these  saints  had  their  share 
In  the  dooming  of  those  mortal  born.     He  who  sees 
Through  all  human  disguises  and  mind-mysteries, 
Notes  the  weakness  of  saint  as  of  sinner,  and  gauges 
Deservings  impartially  through  all  the  ages. 
Were  not  this  the  case,  and  on  saints  we  poor  sinners 
Had  to  solely  rely  for  just  judgments,  the  winners 
In  the  race  the  Apostle  declares  set  before  us 
Would  be  scarce,  though  beatified  eyes  should  watch  o'er  us. 


XVII. 

Since  occurred  the  denouement  with  frank  Blanche  Adair, 
Mark  had  made  sundry  calls  upon  Helen  ;  but  rare 
Of  late  was  it  his  calls  else  than  formal  had  been, 
Helen  being  just  now  very  hard  to  be  seen. 
He  perceived  that  her  mind  was  absorbed  in  some  task, 
Of  the  nature  of  which  he  had  sought  not  to  ask. 
No  offense  did  he  take  when  she  failed  to  appear, 
Thanks  to  words  Blanche  had  spoken  his  spirit  to  cheer. 


374 


HELEN. 


He  had  waited  in  patience,  with  hope  creeping  on, 
Till  such  time  as  she  should  with  her  labor  be  done. 
At  these  calls  sweet  Celeste  for  her  mother  returned 
Ever  gentlest  excuses. 

Yet  one  thing  Mark  learned 
In  the  course  of  these  visits  of  courtesy  there, 
While  Celeste  and  Ray  Wrentham  sole  occupants  were : 
That  to  be  entertained  by  two  lovers  but  wrought 
Vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit,  and  brought 
Grist  to  nobody's  mill. 

Therefore  Mark  came  to  be 

In  his  calls  quite  perceptibly  less  neighborly,— 
Though  some  bird  in  his  tree-tops  that  sang  had  sent  strains 
To  his  heart,  which,  while  banishing  thence  all  remains 
Of  dejection  that  might  have  been  tenanting  there, 
Left  in  lieu,  if  not  sunshine,  at  least  not  despair. 


CANTO   THIRTEENTH. 


REST. 


I. 

In  his  barnyard,  one  day,  in  a  ruminant  mood, 
With  his  clumb-languagedpets  round  him,  Fanner  Mark  stood, 
From  each  one  of  them  hearing  its  plaint  or  its  prayer, 
And  awarding  to  each  praise  or  blame  with  its  fare ; 
When  a  message  from  his  gentle  neighbor  was  brought, 
Telling  him  that  the  pictures  (which  had  from  his  thought 
Nearly  vanished),  by  him  through  her  ordered,  had  come; 
And  would  he  in  a  leisure  hour  call  at  her  home 
And  inspect  them? 

' '  In  case  they  shall  prove  not  to  be 

What  will  please  you,"  thus  ran  Helen's  note,  "you  are  free 
To  decline  them  ;  and  then,  if  you  should  not  refuse 
To  let  this  artist  try  to  paint  some  other  views, 
He  can  yet,  I  hope,  satisfy  you,  when  he  knows 
Something  more  of  your  taste  than  at  present  he  does." 

n. 

In  the  dull,  drear  routine  of  farm-life,  an  event 
New  and  fresh  thus  presented  itself,  and  Mark  went, 
In  response  to  the  summons,  the  same  afternoon, 
Behind  coursers  whose  steps  with  the  airs  kept  in  tune, 
With  superb  effect  sung  by  the  meadowlarks  gay 
And  the  other  winged  troubadours  lining  the  way. 


378  HELEN. 

III. 
.   .   .   I'm  approaching  the  end  of  my  story. 

'Tis  meet, 

While  Mark  drives  o'er  the  prairie  his  neighbor  to  greet, 
That  I  say  a  last  word  for  the  latter,  who  nears 
Now  the  close  of  the  strifes  that  have  crimsoned  her  years. 
In  this  narrative  I  have  most  earnestly  sought 
To  do  justice  to  my  heroine,  who  has  "fought 
A  good  fight",  and,  I  hope  it  is  clear  to  be  seen, 
In  her  course  "  kept  tlie  faith" — greatly  leal  of  soul  been. 
She's  faced  tempters  adept,  that  a  many  beguile, 
With  a  stoutness  of  soul  that  has  won  on  me,  while 
I  have  tried  to  depict  it  in  language  deserved ; 
And  her  constancy  rare  to  inspire  me  has  served. 
Having  borne  herself  well  in  the  trials  that  trooped 
Often  past  her,  and  pressed  through  the  low  clouds  that  grouped 
Her  lone  pathway  athwart,  with  fixed  eye  ever  bent 
On  the  pole-star  which  beamed  in  her  life's  firmament, 
To  the  world  she  has  shown,  by  example  sublime, 
How  the  soul  may  surmount  the  impedings  of  time, 
And  triumphant  ride  out  all  adversity's  gales, 
When  a  compass  it  has  that  ne'er  varies  or  fails. 

IV. 

Such  a  compass  had  she. 

It  has  been  hers  on  earth 

To  advance  the  bright  standard  of  womanhood's  worth ; 
To  show  forth  the  resources  a  woman's  soul  hath 
When  it  fearlessly  follows  inspirings  of  faith — 
Such  a  faith  as  an  iris  of  hope  builds  to  span 
All  the  universe,  places  itself  in  the  van 
Of  the  years,  and  calls  down  to  the  ages  that  pause 
On  the  threshold  of  longing  humanity's  cause 


REST.  379 

The  true  watch-word  of  progress,  the  pass-word  of  peace, 
The  blest  herald  of  trust  in  the  Spirit  of  Grace. 

v. 

.   .   .   Driving  through  the  old  gateway  as  small  grew  the  day, 
The  quick  ear  of  our  farmer  heard  notes  die  away, 
Which  were  plaintive  and  pensive,  yet  rich  with  the  wealth 
Of  the  voice  that  had  cheered  him  in  days  of  heart-health. 
When  he  entered,  he  said  : 

"  Ere  the  paintings  I  see, 
I  entreat  you  that  strain  to  sing  once  more  for  me." 

VI. 

There  was  earnestness  shown  in  his  look,  that  of  late 
She  had  failed  to  observe ;  and  her  heart  leaped  elate. 
She  thought,  too,  that  she  heard,  in  the  tones  of  his  voice 
.An  old,  welcoming  ring. 

Durst  her  spirit  rejoice? 

What  was  this  that  had  come  like  the  first  breath  of  spring, 
To  wake  hope,  and  new  life  to  her  bosom  to  bring? 
The  fresh  impulse  gave  strength,  and  her  voice  thrilled  to  throw 
Her  soul  into  the  song,  with  whose  tremulous  flow 
Her  breast  swelled  in  accord.     Both  the  music  and  words 
Were  her  own,  and  like  these  were  the  sweet  verbal  chords: 

IWe's    Sfesfs. 

"  NON  SINE  LACHBYMI8." 
I. 

I  should  not  crave  a  tearless  love  : 

Unmoistened  by  the  drops  that  start 
At  promptings  of  the  grief-moved  heart, 

'Twould  not  my  inmost  being  move, 
ii. 

I  should  not  seek  a  painless  love  : 

Who  hath  not  suffered  hath  not  known 
The  power  that  stays  affection's  throne, 

And  lifts  the  soul  earth's  dross  above. 


380  HELEN. 

in. 
I  should  iiot  prize  a  clouldless  love  : 

To  its  calm  front  I  could  not  cling. 

In  shadows,  not  in  sunshine,  spring 
The  tests  that  soul-true  passion  prove. 

IV. 

The  love  that  to  my  heart  would  bring 
The  largest  joy,  would  be  one  tried 
By  tears  and  struggles  long,  and  dyed 

In  life's  wine-press  of  suffering. 

VII. 

Near  her  during  the  song  he  had  stood,  and  the  play 
Of  each  muscle  had  watched,  and  the  meaning  that  lay 
In  each  beam  of  her  eyes. 

And,  while  singing,  she  knew 
His  glance  scanned  her,  and  glad  her  heart  under  it  grew. 

For  with  him,  and  herself,  and  the  world,  she  could  now 
Honest  be,  nor  need  shamed  be  by  flush  on  the  brow 
Or  the  cheek,  signaling  thrilled  affection's  warm  glow, 
And  reflecting  the  light  that  gave  cheer  long  ago. 
Just  now,  too,  something  with  sweetest  whispering  said, 
Longer  need  she  not  guard  against  being  betrayed — 
That  the  time  for  betrayal's  completion  drew  near: 
Thus  hope's  advent,  unlocked  for,  drove  off  each  faint  fear. 

VIII. 

As  she  from  the  piano  arose,  and  led  him 
To  examine  his  purchases,  there  was  a  gleam 
In  her  eyes  that  spoke  what  never  words  could  have  told, 
And  made  known  that  all  fires  brightly  burned  as  of  old. 

IX. 

"  In  the  first  I  shall  show  you,  I  fear  you  will  deem 
Too  expensive  an  order  I've  given.     The  dream 


REST.  381 

Of  the  artist,  as  often  will  happen,  you  know, 
Ran  beyond  his  original  plan." 

x. 

Chatting  so, 

She  with  him  entered  into  a  close-darkened  room, 
And  a  curtain  drew,  when  on  a  sudden  the  gloom 

Became  radiance. 

And,  like  an  avatar  bright, 

Burst  from  half  the  wall's  surface,  on  Mark's  dazzled  sight, 
Helen's  work  of  hard  months,  "The  Fishwives  of  Dieppe"  ! 

XI. 

With  an  artist's  joy  filled,  he  dropped  backward  a  step, 

And  stood  gazing  thus  long  without  speaking. 

Than  Mark, 
Ne'er  a  man  could  more  truly  so  labored  a  work 

Estimate  at  its  worth.     The  impression  it  made 
Upon  him  lifted  Helen  to  bliss. 

xn. 

Then  he  said : 

"  There  lay  /once,  in  old  Dieppe,  sketching  this  scene, 
In  the  years  of  my  dawn  ;  and  oft  tempted  I've  been 
To  produce  from  my  sketches  a  picture.     But  I— 
Ah  !  like  thousands  of  others  ! — have  idly  sat  by, 
While  an  artist  from  nowhere,  without  e'en  a  name, 
Has  superbly  forestalled  me,  and  put  me  to  shame!" 

XIII. 

Then  he  carefully  noted  the  grouping,  the  light, 

The  expressions  of  faces  as  well  that  were  bright, 

(And  how  brightly  there  blossomed  each  Normandy  rose!) 

As  of  those  which  were  hideous  ;  also  of  those 

Of  the  sailors ;  the  fishing-smacks  slimy ;  the  quay  ; 

The  great  freight-loading  barque  ;  the  ships  putting  to  sea ; 

And  o'er  all,  with  a  studied  and  master-hand  thrown, 

The  empurpled  rays  cast  by  the  westering  sun. 


382  HELEN. 

XIV. 

He  now  turned  to  her,  saying : 

"  You  know  me  too  well, 

Not  to  know  I  am  pleased  beyond  power  to  tell 
With  this  painting.     And  never  for  work  have  I  paid 
Less  reulctantly  than  will  this  payment  be  made, 
When  you  tell  me  the  price  which  the  artist  has  set, 
Whatsoever  it  be." 

xv. 

"I'm  rejoiced  this  has  met 

Your  desire,"  said  the  heart-brimming  Helen  ;   "I'm  sure 
Your  approval  the  artist  strove  hard  to  secure. 
.   .   .   Now  the  other  we'll  view." 

She  then,  taking  Mark's  arm, 
I^ed  him  gently  away  from  the  lingering  charm 
Of  the  picture,  aloft  to  her  studio  ;  where, 
From  the  easel,  confronted  his  wondering  stare 
A  farm-scene — not  in  France,  not  in  Europe,  and  not 
In  some  quiet,  secluded,  sequestered,  far  spot 
Only  by  memory  or  in  dreams  visited  ; 
But  a  scene  in  the  fresh-blooming  prairie-land  laid. 

XVI. 

There  the  massive  barn  loomed ;  there  men  unloaded  hay, 
On  the  prairie  mown  newly,  and  mowed  it  away — 
Its  sweet  fragrance  one  well-nigh  might  scent  on  the  air ; 
And  the  horses  and  cattle  ranged  round  showed  such  care 
As  a  good  farmer  only  could  give  them  ;  and,  lo  ! 
The  good  farmer  stood  there — a  form  easy  to  know, 
Bronzed  and  stalwart,  broad-shouldered,  and  tall, 
With  slouched  hat,  and  farm-dress,  and  yet  lordly  withal ; 
With  an  eye  bright  and  clear,  and  one  arm  on  the  neck 
Of  a  horse,  which  was  giant  in  frame,  but  whose  back 


REST.  383 

Told  that  burdens  no  longer  in  this  world  it  bore, 

Though  its  form  yet  showed  much  of  a  grace  owned  of  yore ; 

And  if  at  the  four-corners,  where  teams  stop  to  feed, 

Had  been-  hung  up  the  portrait  of  every  bay  steed 

In  the  county,  of  this  would  each  farmer  have  said 

Instantly,  "Why,  that's  none  but  old  Gentleman  Ned, 

Of  the  great  L,anders  farm,  more'n  twenty  year  old ; 

An'  ye  couldn't  buy  him  fur  his  weight  all  in  gold  ;" 

Or  the  substance  thereof. 

XVII. 

(And  much  more,  had  one  cared, 

On  occasion  like  this,  one  of  Mark  might  have  heard : 
Might,  for  instance,  have  heard  that  he  made  of  his  farm 
A  reflex  of  his  mind,  and  threw  o'er  it  a  charm 
That  was  recognized  all  the  wide  region  around  ; 
That  his  neighbors  the  secret  had  never  yet  found, 
Why  the  L,andis  farm  yielded  the  finest  of  grain, 
And  its  owner  the  bulk  of  fair-prizes  should  gain.) 

XVIII. 

.   .   .  Mark  was  stupefied,  dazed,  and  bewildered,  and  sought 
The  enigma  to  solve,  him  confronting.     He  thought 
Of  an  artist  imported,  somehow,  from  abroad, 
(Which  idea  on  its  face  its  absurdity  showed ;) 
Thought  of  what  surreptitiously  might  have  been  done 
By  Trelevyn  ;  but,  no — to  Mark  too  well  was  known 
Both  the  habit  and  hand  of  his  old  artist- friend. 
Then  he  thought  of  Celeste ;  but  could  she  efforts  bend, 
In  years  tender,  to  grasp  undertakings  so  strong, 
Asking  patience  that  waiteth  and  laboreth  long? 
Though  he  deemed  this  her  studio,  yet  could  he  not 
Reconcile  such  a  work  with  her  years  or  her  thought. 

XIX. 

Helen  now  seized  the  pencil,  with  palette  in  hand, 


384  HELEN. 

To  thecanvas  stepped,  and,  while  Mark's  face  was  still  spanned 
With  surprise,  in  one  corner  she  dextrously  wrought 
A  neat,  deft,  artist's  autograph — "f^Un". 

Distraught 

As  his  features  had  been,  they  were  now  all  suffused 
With  a  flood  of  clear  sunshine,  whose  glow  was  diffused 
Swiftly  through  his  whole  being. 

And  then  did  it  seem 

As  if  this  eclaircissement  recalled  his  bright  dream — 
That  its  healthy  fulfillment  was  here:     Art's  fair  queen 
Taking  him  by  the  hand,  and  her  gloried  demesne 

Showing  him. 

xx. 

"So  surprising  'twas  not,"  then  said  Mark, 
"That  in  seeking  the  artist  I  groped  in  the  dark ; 
For  that  you,  save  its  spirit  and  ethical  law, 
Aught  of  art  had  conned,  sought  e'er  to  sketch  or  to  draw, 
Much  less  e'er  held  the  palette,  I  never  had  known." 

XXI. 

"Nor  so  should  I  have  done,  had  not  seeds,  by  you  sown 
Long  ago,  sprung  up,  bearing  such  fruit  as  you  see." 

XXII. 

"You've  effected  a  flattering  likeness  of  me 
In  this  sketch." 

XXIII. 

"  It  is  less  so,  I  think,  than  the  one 
You  once  painted  of  me." 

XXIV. 

' '  What !     You  knew  I  had  done 

That  for  Richard  ?     Ah !     That  was  my  first  and  my  last 
Effort  here  to  revive  my  lost  talent  .  .   .  The  past, 
Helen,  you  have  far  better  improved  than  have  I," 
Said  he,  'neath  dawning  joy  scarce  suppressing  a  sigh. 


REST.  385 

XXV. 

She  was  growing  more  bold. 

She  felt  struck  from  her  soul 

The  strong  chains  that  had  held  it ; — as  'twere,  heard  them  fall 
With  harsh  clank  to  the  ground. 

There  was  joy  just  ahead  ! 
In  her  eyes  had  the  light  become  brighter. 

She  said : 

"  If,  while  resting,  your  spirit  has  acted  through  mine, 
And  inspired  all  of  worth  I  have  wrought  in  design, 
With  full  profit  improved,  surely,  has  been  your  time." 

XXVI. 

' '  Noble  woman  !  a  compliment  all  too  sublime  ! ' ' 

XXVII. 

"To  show  that  'tis  no  compliment  merely,  please  think 
What  you  did  with  the  series  of  sketches  in  ink 
That  you  made  in  Dieppe." 

"Some  of  them  I've  retained, 
And — it  comes  to  me  now — ' ' 

"You  gave  some  to  a  friend?" 
"Yes." 

XXVIII. 

"  That  friend,  heeding  well  all  suggestions  of  yours, 
Learned  to  draw ;   and,  when  she,  on  her  way  to  far  shores, 
In  the  dreamy  Dieppe  for  rest  tarried  awhile, 
The  dull  hours  that  hung  heavy  on  her  to  beguile, 
Supplemented  your  sketches  with  others,  and  kept 
All  with  care,  while  instruction-fraught  years  o'er  her  swept ; 
Till,  with  precepts  you  gave  graven  deep  on  her  brain, 
She  durst  try  what  might  your  slight  encomium  gain." 

XXIX. 

These  words  went  to  the  farthermost  wards  of  his  heart ; 
And  a  moment  absorbed  as  in  dream  and  apart. 


386  HELEN. 

Stood  he ;  rallying  then,  with  a  look  on  her  bent, 

Wherein  gratitude,  trust,  and  affection  were  blent, 

He  advanced  to  her  side,  gently  taking  her  hand, 

(The  first  time  he  had  held  it  thus  since  earth  was  spanned 

For  him  with  a  bright  rainbow  that  vanished  the  morn 

From  the  womb  of  Aurora  its  glory  was  born,) 

And  thus  said,  in  tones  earnest,  and  tender,  and  true, 

Whose  refrains  rang  with  gladsomeness  all  her  soul  through : 

XXX. 

' '  Pupil-friend  of  my  youth  !     Tutor  true  in  the  days 
When  the  beacons  of  duty  were  dimmed  by  the  haze 

Of  heart-sorrow ! 

"From  depths  of  my  being  I  seem 

To  be  nerved  to  fulfil  yet  my  morn's  ardent  dream  ! 

To  my  spirit  there  comes  a  strong  voice,  'to  command 

That  I  now  in  the  courts  of  the  Beautiful  stand, 

As  I  stood  in  days  halcyon,  there  to  find  task 

For  my  hand,  and  seek  harvest  I  ventured  to  ask 

Of  the  j'ears  in  their  prime.     There's  a  harbingered  hope 

Bids  me  try.     I'll  obey,  and  my  labor  take  up 

Where  I  left  off  a  score  of  years  gone. 

"  'Tis  my  turn, 

Now,  at  your  feet  to  sit,  and  art-lessons  to  learn. 
.   .   .  But  there's  one  thing  I  must  not  forget.     You  have  made 
With  this  artist  some  terms  as  to  price  to  be  paid. 
Please  to  state  them." 

XXXI. 

"  She  leaves  this  entirely  with  you," 
Helen  said,  looking  full  in  his  face,  while  still  grew 
In  her  cheek  warmer  glow. 

XXXII. 

Ah  !  The  lights  on  the  shore 
Have  by  Landis  been  signaled  at  last !     Now  no  more 


head  sanh  on  his  true,  strong,  and  masterful  breast, 
Where  she  found  the  years'  guerdon— ineffable  rest. 


388  REST. 

Will  his  barque  be  tossed  on  the  wild  billows  of  doubt, 
Or  among  despair's  breakers  dashed  fiercely  about! 

XXXIII. 

He  said : 

"She  is  magnanimous ! 

' '  But,  let  me  see 
If  acceptable  what  I  shall  proffer  will  be." 

XXXIV. 

Round  her  waist,  like  a  thief,  had  been  stealing  his  arm ; 
And  she  found  herself  nearing  his  dominant  form. 

XXXV. 

' '  What  I  have  to  bestow  in  a  sheaf  I  will  bring : 

For  the  first,  I  will  give  her  a  diamond  ring  ; 

Next,  I'll  give  her  a  solid,  plain  ring,  all  of  gold ; 

And  some  treasures  I've  kept  since  the  glad  days  of  old. 

Then,  I'll  give  her  one  third  of  my  houses  and  lands, 

And  the  whole  of  a  heart  that  has  never  known  bands, 

Save  her  own ;  and  a  faith  that  shall  live  through  the  years, 

And  shall  follow  her  on,  beyond  time,  beyond  tears. 

.   .   .  Will  this  do?     'Tis  wage  scanty  for  worker  so  true." 

XXXVI. 

There  was  mist  in  her  eyes. 

She  but  breathed : 

"That  will  do!" 

xxxvn. 

Her  head  sank  on  his  true,  strong,  and  masterful  breast, 
Where  she  found  the  years'  guerdon — ineffable  rest. 


THE  END. 


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